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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542045">the death and birth of stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordcatchers/pseuds/wordcatchers'>wordcatchers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Regression/De-Aging, Bathing/Washing, Bed-Wetting, Children's Stories, Cuddling, Developing Relationship, F/F, Guilt, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Loss of Parent(s), Miscommunication, Napping, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, Spell Failure, Stuffed Toys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:07:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>31,476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordcatchers/pseuds/wordcatchers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione lived for her mum’s praise and affections, the terms of endearment, the physical closeness that filled her heart with the sun’s warmth, <i>everything</i>.</p><p>And she will never receive any of it again, and it is all her fault.</p><p>That is, until Narcissa Black has something to say about it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger &amp; Narcissa Black Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>297</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. left out wandering and cold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, this got away from me- meant for it to be short, but that flew out the window. I wanted something soft with just the right amount of angst, annnnd this happened.</p><p>This is non-sexual age play, as it says on the tin. Narcissa and Hermione are not in a relationship here, but I put the tag in because it doesn't really fit gen imo, considering the kink nature? (Same reasoning for the T rating.) It's something that <i>could</i> potentially happen, but not touched on here. Merely a future perhaps.</p><p>Not beta'ed, and fair warning that if age play in general rubs you wrong, if it's not your thing (though this one is rather "tame" imo), then please do not read this fic. In this it is essentially a return to a simpler headspace of innocence and love and care.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chills run through her, despite the ever-present fact that it’s the middle of August, and everyone is in either scant Muggle clothing or lightweight robes. Hermione sits at an empty, out of the way table outside of Fortescue’s, forgoing any ice cream or cold treat for herself- she doesn't need to <em>purposely </em>make herself grow even <em>colder </em>than she already is, and tries to content herself to watching other people enjoy their day. Young magical children are led along by their parents, and she’s drawn to the sight of a dark-haired girl asking her mummy for an ice cream cone shaped like a Pygmy Puff. Her mother doesn’t relent, and she notices the way the little girl’s lower lip trembles, and a flash of some emotion runs through her like a strike of lightning. She can’t quite find the name for it, though, but it’s hit her on and off for years now. Something small and precious without a home, lost and floundering.</p><p>Drawing her lightweight Muggle coat tighter to herself, she scans the most recent copy of The Quibbler, dated July 2005, some vision of pleasure and relief in reading Luna interviewing Draco Malfoy. The sheer idea of it was ludicrous years ago, but she’d thoughtful questions and he gave equally thoughtful answers now. Despite themselves, they’ve grown up, and the Malfoy heir remarks on his fiancée, a woman who’d been two years their junior in Hogwarts, one Miss Astoria Greengrass. A photograph of the engaged couple shows them casually lounging against a large oak tree, presumably at Malfoy Manor, now much brighter than how it had solidified itself within her memories. Astoria’s head rests against Malfoy’s chest as she sits between his outstretched legs, a hand resting just below his knee, the magic of the photograph showing her thumb idly stroking the fabric of his dark trousers.</p><p>She wonders for a moment if Malfoy’s mother knows about the interview or the photo spread, because her few memories of the woman don’t match up with someone who would appreciate her son appearing in The Quibbler, or taking such casually intimate engagement photos to share with family, let alone essentially all of Wizarding Britain. Yet as she continues to read the article, Narcissa Malf- no, <em> Black</em>, is mentioned once: <em> “‘Mother?’ Draco Malfoy ponders the question, fingers twined with his fiancée’s, who gives him a meaningful glance. ‘She and Astoria get along splendidly now, but things were a tad... bumpy, at the start. It takes work to even </em>begin<em> to overcome long-held prejudices, even though hers were much less extreme than Father's, but I’m…’ -here, Draco pauses- ‘I am glad that unlike Father, she received the chance and took to it.’” </em></p><p><em> Unlike Father. </em> She remembers the swift judgment to Azkaban for Lucius Malfoy after the Battle of Hogwarts in May 1998, relief flowing through her back then that at least <em>one</em> Malfoy got their due, only for shock and misplaced guilt to take root when Malfoy’s father was murdered during transport to the island prison. Harry went to the sparsely attended funeral, while she and Ron had sat out on it. Her best friend had come back from the services with the oddest contemplative look on his face, remarking that neither Mrs. Malfoy or her son accepted his condolences, because, and he quoted, <em>“He doesn’t deserve them.”</em></p><p>To have gone from a boy who threatened that “my father will hear about this!” so much that he sounded like a broken record, to… well, Hermione still doesn’t understand it. But she had paid no mind to the Malfoys afterward, only knowing that he hadn’t come back to Hogwarts, and for her part, she had left the country after finishing her N.E.W.T.s in June of 1999. After a year of going around the globe, she’d immediately taken two long-distance Portkeys to Brisbane, Australia, in June of 2000 with the sole purpose of restoring her parents’ memories.</p><p>She’d watched them covertly- surveying how they lived for a month, delicately maneuvering herself into their lives as an acquaintance on the verge of friendship- before formulating a foolproof plan to get inside of their home by invitation and slip the memory-restoring potion into their evening wine. Ron and Harry had offered to come with her, but this was… <em> “It’s something I have to do on my own. If I- </em> if <em> I run into trouble, I’ll contact one of you through Floo.” </em> Long before making the trip, she’d worked everything out with the Wizarding Parliament of Australia and secured a temporary home and Floo Network-connected fireplace. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Or as she told herself when she arrived, <em> it’ll be more than enough once I’ve got Mum and Dad here. </em></p><p>Someone’s small hand on her forearm draws her away from blankly staring at the interview, its words turned into a soft blur from unfocused eyes. A little girl, the same girl she’d seen earlier with her mum, has come to ask if she has a spare few Knuts so she can buy herself an ice cream cone, “‘cause Mummy won’t.” Hermione is torn and scans the area until, oh good, the girl’s mother spots her. She doesn’t want to step in for her mother, knows it isn’t her place.</p><p>She does, however, smile at the girl and tells her, “Promise your mummy you’ll do something for her in return, and maybe she’ll buy you that cone. But make sure and <em> really </em> do it for her!” The girl’s eyes light up, and Hermione hands the child- certainly a little half- or pure-blood witch because she’s in Diagon Alley <em> years </em> before getting her Hogwarts letter- over to her mother when she reaches them.</p><p>It’s a welcome distraction, similar to the article, but the chills return as she watches the woman finally acquiesce to her daughter’s request and purchases the ice cream for her. It’s always the same, however long it takes, the same feelings and wants come back however much she tries to bury them, and she wonders if she should see a Muggle therapist. There’s plenty of Muggle cover stories for, “I messed up with a memory charm and now I can never be my parents’ daughter again, and I miss them <em> terribly</em>, and I <em> always will</em>,” that she's sure she can come up with if she tries hard enough. But the part of her that whispers “by doing so, you’ll be admitting that there’s no chance you’ll ever have your mummy and daddy back” wins out, and she can’t have that, can’t let that ridiculous sliver of hope decay.</p><p>Sure, Molly and Arthur have done their best to welcome her into the family as a surrogate daughter ever since the worst happened, and she collapsed in front of the Burrow as Ron and Harry brought her back from Australia, a miracle that she hadn't splinched herself during that one side-along apparition. But they don’t <em> understand</em>, they aren’t at all like Anthony and Jean Granger. The Weasleys have raised seven children, not one- they’d not a clue what it was like to <em> only </em> raise one child and utterly devote themselves to that one. And it’s as this thought passes through her that she wonders if it weren’t for the existence of prejudice against her blood status, if she and Malfoy could have been friends, bonding first over their status as only children.</p><p>She knows she hadn’t been <em> as </em> spoiled as Draco Malfoy, but her parents had been well-off considering they were both well-to-do dentists. Still <em> are, </em> except they no longer have a child to share that with just because. And as another child comes running out of Flourish &amp; Blotts, she watches the scene unfolding like a memory: <em> holding up books to her mum in the same shop fourteen years ago, fascination and wonderment ever so present on her childish face, yet to lose her baby fat. Her mother speaking with her father, fastidiously counting out a small pile of foreign gold, silver, and bronze coins to purchase a decent stack of books for their daughter, to prepare her for entry into a world none of them had first-hand experience with. </em></p><p>
  <em> “Now Hermione, love,” her mum had said as she bent down to her level, cupping her jaw gently and stroking her cheekbone with a gentle thumb, “Take good care of these books, all right? The shopkeeper told us that your trunk has an extendable charm placed at the bottom, and you can keep plenty of books there. More than you could ever believe.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cheeks tinged pink with happiness, she’d hugged her mum, then her dad, so, <strong>so</strong> tightly. </em>
</p><p>It’s in this reverie that she hears new muffled voices at a nearby table, and overhearing her name, she blinks herself back to the present and casts a glance over. Two blondes, a witch and wizard, as well as a brown-haired witch sit around a small rounded table, their ice cream bowls emptied, and to Hermione, they still look out of place even in this new century. One former Malfoy, one current, and one Malfoy-to-be: Narcissa Black, Draco Malfoy, and Astoria Greengrass. She swallows thickly, half a mind to disapparate on the spot, because she hasn’t seen the Malfoys since the war trials, and she can hardly remember Astoria from Hogwarts. What could they <em> want </em>with her?</p><p>But upon noticing that she’s looking back at them, the blond wizard beckons her to them with a curl of an index finger. She gestures to her chest rather dumbly and catches a slight roll of the eyes from Draco Malfoy, but a small smile tugs at his lips. In spite of herself and what should be her own common sense making an appearance, she approaches their table.</p><p>“Long time not seeing you around, Granger,” Draco says with what should be an arrogant drawl she remembers, but it lacks all the former bite and disdain, replaced by some sort of tremulous warmth. She twitches a bit at the usage of her surname, a name she no longer uses with anyone unless necessary, but bites her lip and stills herself- she can’t just ask Malfoy to call her Hermione so soon. Yet she feels Narcissa Black’s pale blue eyes surveying her intently, finding that cool gaze no longer hard and antagonizing as their eyes finally meet.</p><p>It’s at Astoria’s innocent phrasing of, “How have you been, Hermione?” that she visibly feels her body relaxing, and she doesn’t have to completely plaster on her smile like she initially thought. She starts to open her mouth to respond when the scratch of a chair pulling out beside Narcissa catches her attention.</p><p>“Do sit down, Miss Granger,” the older witch says. It’s an order concealed inside a surprisingly cordial outreach. She tenses for the barest of moments before sitting down in the offered seat, feeling incredibly out of place among two of the three others. After all, Narcissa and Draco had been in the same parlour when Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her less than ten years ago. Her body had healed, though she still felt phantom aches from the scarring on her forearm. The slur itself was removed, but a muted scar stayed and faded- however, she knows this isn't the time to dredge up old war memories. She doesn't want to talk about it if she doesn't have to.</p><p>She folds her hands together on the table and tells them what she’s comfortable with sharing: her time exploring and learning from Wizarding cultures in other countries, her two years in Canada pursuing a double mastery in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and her current job as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. Her audience of three follow along with nods and the barest of interruptions, only asking for slight clarifications, and she finds their active listening refreshing. Ronald and Harry were always so boisterous, brashly interrupting despite all her effort spent trying to teach them better. They simply weren’t polite in that fashion, though Harry was much better than Ron.</p><p>Surprisingly, it’s Narcissa- who has, for some reason, asked that she call her by her first name- who brings up the male portion of the so-called Golden Trio. She asks how they’re doing, and in sharing what’s appropriate, Draco leads her into admitting that while she’d tried with Ron, “We simply weren’t meant to be. He's a friend, nothing more.” She quickly redirects the conversation back to Draco and Astoria, asking them how they met, learning that though it was to some degree still an arranged marriage, she’d held a soft spot for him during their Hogwarts years, but had come down hard on his bigotry and prejudices. The Greengrasses, it appeared, were not of the same mindset as most other Slytherin pure-blood families, and had never followed Voldemort.</p><p>After his father’s murder, after his own time spent as a Death Eater- which he admitted, he had largely only done to gain the approval of said father- it hadn’t taken more than a couple of years of dedicated work, time begrudgingly then earnestly spent getting to know Muggle-borns and their parents through a Ministry program for people like himself, that he’d worked through and gradually dismantled everything he’d been raised to believe. It has been harder for his mother who is still going through a few related programs, and she admits that she still has to fight her own mind at rare times, but, “I am trying, Miss Granger.” They share a look, and she sees nothing but honesty in the cool blue. She wants to ask the older witch to call her by her first name as well, but she doesn't want to admit that she hates hearing her surname, and her mind is too addled to come up with another believable reason.</p><p>“If you’d been here with your parents back then,” Draco starts, “you may have been one of those Muggle-borns I spent time with. Granted,” he shrugs, “I doubt that back then you would have ever agreed to it, even with Astoria by my side.” </p><p>He doesn’t outright ask about her parents but he might as well have, because she feels her heart clench in her chest at the mere mention of them, another chill coursing through her, and she barely stops the tears from springing to her eyes. Since Narcissa has the clearest view of her and isn’t distracted by a significant other, she notices the way she tenses, and Hermione notices <em> her </em>witnessing her moment of weakness. But Narcissa says nothing. Hermione wets her lips and works on relaxing again, but she can’t quite get back to where she had been only a few minutes prior. Again, she considers looking into Muggle therapy as another soft chill passes through her veins.</p><p>Attention is directed onto Narcissa after Astoria and Draco’s tales are wrapped up. The older witch, free of being a traditional pure-blood housewife who had to stifle her own career interests to support her husband, has taken up work for the past few years at St. Mungo’s, splitting her time between practicing as a medicinal potions researcher as well as a midwife. She admits with some sorrow but resolute acceptance that many Wizarding couples pass her over due to her past affiliations (“one can never escape one’s names,” she states, nearly freezing Hermione to her seat with her words), so she can likely never take on her midwife duties full-time, “but,” she finishes, “the couples and single witches I do see make it more than worth it.”</p><p>Hermione silently admits to herself that she’s never considered Narcissa a <em>truly</em> maternal type (despite knowing <em>why </em>she lied to Tom Riddle's face), but she hasn’t ever seen the blonde witch in a context that allowed her <em> to </em>see it without her own biased views colouring her mind. But now she clearly spots it in how she looks on with such tenderness at her only son and his bride-to-be, catches it in how she addresses them both in terms of endearment that roll off her tongue like comforting waves lapping at bare feet on the edge of a sandy beach, and it’s that that has Hermione’s breath hitching in her throat, not loud enough for Draco and Astoria to hear over the din of voices around them, but she senses Narcissa swiveling her attention towards her for a few moments, regarding her silently as her son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law decide upon their plans for their evening with each other.</p><p>
  <em> “Oh my darling girl,” her mum whispered, running smooth fingers through her bushy brown hair. “You’ve done so well this term, haven’t you?” She held Hermione’s year two grades under the lamplight and smiled, welcoming her daughter to snuggle in closer to her along with her otter stuffie. Her father was still watching a football match on the telly downstairs, something neither of the Granger women cared for, so they always took this time to spend together however they saw fit. </em>
</p><p>Hermione lived for her mum’s praise and affections, the terms of endearment, the physical closeness that had filled her heart with the sun’s warmth, <em> everything</em>.</p><p>And she will never receive any of it again.</p><p>Knowing well enough that something of a breakdown is looming ever closer in the distance, she starts to excuse herself from the table. Reaching her satchel that she’d left at her own small table for two, she picks it up, settling it over her shoulder, and unsheathes her wand to apparate back to her flat. It’s only at a disarmingly gentle touch to her upper arm that she turns her head slightly to look behind her out of the corner of her eye.</p><p>Narcissa Black is looking at her somewhat imploringly. And then she remarks on how much visiting Muggle-borns and their parents helped Draco as well as herself, and perhaps- perhaps she might do the same again and see Hermione’s, if that would be agreeable?</p><p>“I understand if you wouldn’t trust me around them despite my time spent in this Ministry program as well as others, but I… must admit, I have grown curious to see for myself the people who raised the brightest witch of her age.” Hermione knows it’s meant to come across as a compliment, that it <em> is </em> a compliment, straight and true, completely without foul intentions, so it’s not <em>that</em> that makes her start crying. She can’t find the words to explain, she can’t <em> speak </em>the truth here, lay everything out in the open; all she knows is that she has to leave before she fully breaks down and can’t apparate without splinching herself.</p><p>She knows that Narcissa, Malfoy, and Astoria will come to all sorts of conclusions about her emotional outburst and abrupt departure, but curling in on herself on her couch in her flat as she sobs until her lungs ache and burn from it, it’s the furthest thing from her mind. She just wants her mum and dad, but she’ll never have them again.</p><p>It’s been years, and she will never stop missing the comfort of her parents. The emotions rip through her like continuous slashes from an ice cold butcher knife, and her only comfort is in the old otter stuffie she clings to, that she's kept with her since she was a child.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>He tells himself he's doing it for his mother, which is, for the most part, true. She had been beside herself at Granger’s abrupt and highly emotionally charged departure from Fortescue’s a week ago, wondering what she’d done wrong, what she’d <em> said </em> to upset the younger witch so. And though her words didn’t betray her emotions, his mother’s eyes said it all, but she wanted to make <em> certain</em>, and he- he has some sort of in with at least one of Granger’s mates.</p><p>The inter-office letter folds itself into a parchment airplane at a tap of his wand, and there- yes, there it goes, out of his hands and seeking out one Harry James Potter, a wizard who lies somewhere between schoolboy acquaintance and a cautious sort of friend on his side of things.</p><p>Less than two hours pass. A return parchment zooms into his office with the distinctive green markings of the DMLE. He opens the letter, reads it, and, well.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> Draco, </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> I will ask forgiveness from Hermione later. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> She erased her parents’ memories of her before we went searching for Horcruxes in order to protect them from Riddle and his Death Eaters. She told us at the end of sixth year that it was the first and only spell that she couldn’t practice before using it in earnest. We told her beforehand that she could try it on Ron or I or any of the Weasleys, that surely if it went wrong on small memories, St. Mungo’s could put us right. But after what happened to Lockhart, she simply wouldn’t have it. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> She studied the charm for... two years? before casting it in 1997- perfecting the wand movement, the pronunciation, the intent to save, not harm, and revert when the time came- or at least that’s what she told us. But when that time came, she wasn’t able to restore their memories. Even the foremost experts on memory charms weren’t able to come up with a way to put their memories back. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> She blames herself, and we don’t bring them up anymore, because… well, you saw how that can go. I’ve tried to convince her to see a Muggle therapist- they help people resolve trauma like this, as well as other… er, illnesses of the mind? I’m not sure how to describe it to a pure-blooded wizard. But for some reason she hasn’t tried it, and we can’t force her to go. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> If you sincerely wish to apologise, I’m sure she’ll accept an invitation to tea. She prefers hers with milk and two sugars. She used to joke that her parents got onto her about it, because they were- are- dentists (Muggle Healers who address teeth problems and perform deep cleans on them). </em>
  </p>
  <p><em> Sincerely,<br/>
</em> <em> Harry Potter </em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>It is an absolute wonder, he thinks, how Granger has stayed friends with the likes of blabbermouths like Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley for over a decade. At least the dark-haired wizard had secured the parchment with a spell that only allowed him, his mother, and Astoria to read its contents. He scoffs at Potter trying to explain Muggle “therapy” to him- it sounds like the Muggle equivalent of the Mind Menders at St. Dymphna’s in Glasgow. If Potter hasn’t heard of the place, he wonders if Granger hasn’t either.</p><p>He surprises himself with the thought that Hogwarts really should have a course for Muggle-borns to better integrate into Wizarding society, because it appears that the Weasley's have done a rather shite job of explaining things. St. Dymphna’s had been overwhelmed right after the war, at least for the first year or two. It’s another bogglement of the mind to him that the Golden Trio hadn’t been pushed and prodded into the centre itself, considering their central roles in the war. Perhaps being a member of the so-called Golden Trio and outright asking for <em> privacy </em>actually got them that completely, no questions asked.</p><p>But he doesn’t have time to dwell on the past and failures. He has already spent so much time atoning for himself, let alone trying to take on all of Wizarding society’s failures. After duplicating the letter twice and adding his own securing charms to each, he sends the letters to his fiancée and mother. And it’s in his mother’s eyes that evening when he and Astoria visit a cottage owned by the House of Black at her bequest, that he accepts without one word to the contrary, that <em> she </em> is going to be the one who personally invites Hermione Granger to tea in the very cottage they’re sitting in. Alone, as to not overwhelm her, “but if you’d like to write a letter to her, feel free to.” He and Astoria agree after returning home to completely leave things to his mother. <em>Mother knows best</em>, as he's learned time and time again.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>She shouldn’t feel scared, but she does, and the same chill she’s periodically felt for five years now rushes back through her body, making her shiver. She can’t help but feel very, very small as she approaches the cottage Narcissa has invited her to for tea, even though it looks harmless and rather welcoming. She simply doesn’t talk about what happened to her parents, what she’d done to them- it’s something she’s kept close to her heart for years, save for very few others who know based mainly on the fact they <em>had </em>to know, and she’d given Harry a proper dressing down for blabbering off her secret to the three people who had witnessed the beginnings of a breakdown over said secret.</p><p>But instead of going straight to the Daily Prophet or some other gossip rag as she had feared, she’s been invited around for<em> tea</em>. Narcissa wrote that they needn’t speak about her family if she doesn't wish to, that she merely desires a chance to apologise in person and have another chance to properly speak with her, to leave off on a better note. Hermione tells herself again that she’s doing this only to satisfy her curiosity. She’ll do that, get through this tea with Narcissa Black, and then she and the other witch can part ways.</p><p>The first thing she says to the blonde witch is, “There’s no need to apologise; you didn’t know, Ms. Black.” But the older witch will hear none of it, and her eyes are drawn slightly downward as Narcissa reaches for her hands and grasps them softly, smooth thumbs rubbing soothing patterns onto her skin, reminding her that she can call her by her first name. Her apprehension melts immediately, enjoying the warmth from Narcissa far more than she should, but then the skin-to-skin connection is gone, and she finds she also misses it more than she should as the older witch guides her to a settee placed within a windowed alcove in the cottage, leaving her for a moment while she checks on their tea and biscuit tray. Hermione hasn’t expected anything more than tea, but realises she could use a proper snack with the beverage. She also hasn’t expected to feel herself start to slip into some feeling of comfortable camaraderie with the former Malfoy matriarch, but her aura has so viscerally altered in the years since the war, and her magic acutely senses the shift.</p><p>Given a chance to take in part of the cottage properly while Narcissa is in the small kitchen, Hermione is surprised to find an abundance of plants- none of which are Dark- strewn about on windowsills, tables, even potted on the sleek and dark hardwood flooring. She catalogues several based on parsing through her memories of what she learned throughout years of Herbology at Hogwarts. But it’s the two large bookcases filled up with all sorts of books of varying spine widths that finally draw her out of her seat.</p><p>She scans the topmost shelves quickly, fingertips gliding along the spines of a mixture of ancient and relatively newer books. When she bends down to the lower shelves, eventually sitting on the knees of her trousers beneath her robes, she sees that the spines are noticeably smaller, and some of the books are just, well, <em> small</em>. Gaze traveling over the titles, she doesn’t recognise any of them, but it’s clear that these are Wizarding children’s books. <em> Herbert the Hippogriff’s First Flight, A is for Avis,</em> and<em> The Adventures of Meryl the Metamorphmagus </em>are merely a few of the titles that stand out.</p><p>“Find anything that interests you, Miss Granger?” an astonishingly soft voice finds its way into her ears from somewhere above her. Startling slightly, she sits back on her bum and looks up at Narcissa, who suddenly- it should feel like <em> looming</em>, but it decidedly doesn’t- is standing so tall above her, blue eyes flickering with intrigue as a disarmingly gentle smile graces the blonde's features. “I see you’ve found my old book collection. Do come though, I've got our tea and biscuits ready.”</p><p>Hermione takes a sip of her tea after eating her first Honeydukes’ chocolate finger, finding the drink to taste exactly as she prefers it. She asks Narcissa how she knows, and the knowing raise of one of her sculpted eyebrows fills her in: <em> Harry</em>. All right, so she may have to thank him for that, at least. There’s something else in Narcissa’s gaze, something her ever insistent curiosity wants to poke at, but she keeps herself from indulging. Instead, she asks about the Wizarding children’s books that had captured her interest.</p><p>“Are those Black or Malfoy children’s books?” she asks, gesturing to the bookcase with her eyes and a minute tilt of the head. Narcissa sets her cup of tea back onto its small saucer and wandlessly summons a few of the books, tenderly tracing slim fingers over aged covers.</p><p>After a moment, pale blue eyes look back up at her. “They’re a mixture. A few are generations old, some were bought when my sisters and I or Lucius were children, and others were Draco’s when he was a little boy.” For some reason- it must be curiosity, because she’d only seen Muggle children’s books before, barring <em> The Tales of Beedle the Bard</em>- her fingers itch with a desire to hold, to read the books, or to- she doesn't dwell on this desire long, squashing it down- have someone read them <em>to</em> her. She curls her fingers into her palm, digging the nails in, though. She’s nearly twenty-six years old, not three, not even seven years old. She shouldn't be thinking of things like this, however much it tugs at her to ask.</p><p>“Are you saving them for your future grandchildren?” she finds herself settling on asking instead, eyes flitting between Narcissa and the quaint room around them. Hermione purses her lips as her eyes land on an ornate, faded green chest, wondering what’s inside of it. Her fingers slacken against her palm, and her mind wanders to the once imagined scenario she’d entertained of seeing her own potential children meet her parents, and what grandparent names they may have given to Anthony and Jean Granger. But she has no one to have children with, and no parents to make into grandparents even if she does meet someone someday and has children of her own.</p><p>Narcissa crosses her legs and nods subtly. “They are. And they’re a mixture of girls’, boys’, and gender-neutral books, so no matter what Draco and Astoria have, the child will have their pick. I must admit that I am slightly hoping for a granddaughter, because I was... never able to have a daughter of my own.” There’s something in the slight waver of Narcissa’s voice at the end of her sentence that sends some sort of anguish, stemming from two-fold reasoning- feeling for Narcissa, for whatever reason she wasn’t able to have a daughter, and thinking of her own mum for having one but forgetting her because of said daughter’s own actions.</p><p>Hermione distracts herself by reaching out and setting light fingers atop Narcissa’s forearm, effectively bringing them both back out of their own heads. “For whatever my word is worth,” she states, “I hope you’ll get yourself at least one granddaughter to spoil. But,” she lifts her fingers, bringing her hand back into her own lap. Glancing over at the chest, she gestures to it with a hand, “may I ask what’s in there?”</p><p>Narcissa’s mouth falls open in a small <em> oh </em> shape, and with a wave of her wand, the lock on the chest in the corner of the room clicks and the top of the chest rises. Her hand rests on the back of Hermione’s arm, tapping lightly, prompting her to go look for herself. When she reaches the chest, she kneels down and opens it the rest of the way. After glancing over the objects inside, she turns to Narcissa.</p><p>“A toy chest?” she inquires, brown eyes alight. Oh, she remembers her own, meticulously putting her Muggle toys back in before bed every night as a little girl. Not for any prize or reward, unless she counted her mum kissing her forehead and thanking her for being <em> “such a good girl, Hermione... Let’s get my good girl tucked in now, hm?” </em> and all right, maybe she does count that as a reward in itself, but she remembers that some of her classmates used to get money for their good grades, and she’d never gotten <em> that</em>, but good grades were a reward in themselves. Money wasn't the same as receiving actual affections from her parents, anyway- they were merely a poor, lackluster substitute.</p><p>Narcissa smiles and nods, standing to her feet and coming over to join her, though she doesn’t bend down like Hermione has. She listens as Narcissa describes each toy that Hermione points at, from wooden blocks that are charmed to stick together, not falling apart unless the child wants to start anew or a parent declares play time over, to a miniature potion-making set that only includes child-safe ingredients. What Hermione finds herself most interested in, though, is the full Kneazle stuffie that’s squished between a Hippogriff and a Porlock stuffie. She lets her fingertips graze over the plush grey fur, but startles as the eyes blink and turn to survey her.</p><p>“Oh Merlin,” she says, a rush of shock leaving her in a swift whoosh of breath. “I’ve never seen a-” she hesitates, knowing it’s not appropriate for someone her age to call them <em> stuffies </em> so casually without a child about, “a soft toy <em> move </em>before.” With wide eyes, she looks up at Narcissa and asks, “Do all Wizarding soft toys move like this Kneazle?”</p><p>Narcissa blinks slowly at her, then some dawning of realisation washes over her features before she answers with her own question, “Oh, forgive me, Miss Granger. You didn’t grow up in a Wizarding household, so you wouldn’t… do Muggle ones <em>not</em> move?” Hermione sees that she actually is interested in her answer, and moves to stand up to her full height again. Bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, she bites her lip and shakes her head.</p><p>“They’re nice to cuddle with, but they’re completely inanimate. Can these… <em> be </em>still if wanted?” She looks down at the Kneazle again, still eyeing her, but after another moment it gets to its feet and leaps out of the chest, deep green eyes never leaving her. She wonders exactly what sort of magical properties have been imbued in it. She hears a chuckle from Narcissa as the stuffed Kneazle starts to paw at the ankle of Hermione’s knee-high dragon hide boots.</p><p>“If a child falls asleep with one, they certainly settle down so as to not wake them. But I must say, I do believe this one has taken a liking to you, Miss Granger,” Narcissa says, an unexpected shine to her voice.</p><p>Hermione, though, can’t help but bristle at the form of address again, and she knows it’s noticeable to Narcissa as well. Sighing, she simply states, “Please call me Hermione, Narcissa. I hardly feel worthy of my surname.” Swallowing thickly, she can’t <em> believe </em> she’d uttered that last sentence- she hadn’t <em> meant </em>to, but the Kneazle stretches up, pawing higher on her leg, and she knows she heard Narcissa take a sharp breath.</p><p>“My dear,” Narcissa says softly, “We are worthy of our surnames from the moment we are born, and that never changes. There is power in all names, and for wizardkind, whether pure-blood, half-blood, or Muggle-born... our magic becomes intertwined with our names the moment they are given to us, and for some, that magic reinstates itself anew when they choose a new name later in life.”</p><p>It makes sense to her, it does, but hearing <em> worthy </em> and thinking it in the same wave as <em> Granger</em>, she still- gods, she's <em>freezing</em>. She sits down completely on the floor, crossing her legs, watching as the Kneazle stuffie climbs into her lap, rubbing its face against her cheeks. It’s so <em> impossibly </em> soft, and all she wants is to cuddle it to her. She catches herself almost wishing that she could forget her parents like they’d forgotten her, and in the instant after she thinks such a wretched thing, as if they’d <em> chosen </em> to forget her, as if she <em> deserves </em> the peace of letting them fade into the background, if that were even <em> possible </em>without resulting in something catastrophic happening to her own mind, like blanking out on every single memory of her childhood until she magically wound up as some eleven-year-old without a past at Hogwarts-</p><p>She feels it as a tremor as her magic seeps out of her, anger and rage at herself, grief and despair radiating outward unchecked. It’s a release that is accompanied by sobs and the pitch black of unconsciousness as the freezing cold claims her.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>When she wakes, the Kneazle stuffie is laying still, curled up next to her stomach. She’s laying tucked into some foreign bed, definitely not her own, and she finds herself whimpering, shivering, eyes searching as she continues to stay put, slowly testing out the aching muscles of her physical form. She’s so thoroughly drained, and all she can think is, <em> want my mummy. </em>She’d dreamed of her, the way she used to lay her head in her mum’s lap while watching telly as a child. So warm, so full of love and safety. Before life had taken so much from her.</p><p>Before she fully comes back to herself, she calls out, voice rough and weary, “Mummy?” Hermione curls deeper into herself, the picture of someone in fetal position, and she hears soft footsteps, ears perking up as someone comes into the room. The woman’s hair flashes from dark brown to blonde, back and forth until it settles on blonde. This isn’t her mum, a quiet rational voice at the back of her mind tells her, but her magic is still aching, so small, and she doesn’t give another thought to that voice. She just wants her mum.</p><p>“... Mummy?” she whispers, her quiet voice half a whine, teeth near chattering.</p><p>The woman sits on the edge of the bed next to her and reaches out tentatively towards her head, looking straight into her weary eyes, then rests her hand in Hermione’s hair. It’s a gentle touch, and she so desperately wants to lean into it. A contented sigh escapes her, and as pleasure and warmth course through her at the woman, at <em>Mummy</em>, running gentle fingers through her hair, she falls asleep again.</p><p>It’s upon her second awakening that the memories fall back into place, and she’s <em> horrified </em> at the state of mind she’d allowed herself to fall into. Even if she has to admit to herself that it had felt <em>good</em>, she- she’s not a child, and Narcissa Black is <em> not </em> her mother! Shooting up in the bed, the Kneazle stuffie jumps back from her, tail swishing angrily at the abrupt movement. She scans the immediate vicinity for Narcissa, and at no sign of the other witch, she calls forth her wand- or, she would, if <em> it were in its sheath! </em>Groaning in exasperation and embarrassment, she shifts in place until her feet hit the floor, and she stands up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.</p><p>“May I have my wand back?” is the first thing out of her mouth when she pads into the kitchen where Narcissa is sitting at a small table meant for four, reading a book that has to have come from one of the bookcases in the cottage. The blonde casts an uncharacteristically warm gaze on her, and instead of answering with words, gestures to the seat at her right. Hermione shifts uncomfortably on her feet clad only in dark socks (Narcissa must have cast the boots off her, as well as her outermost robes), but sits down and opens her mouth to apologise-</p><p>Narcissa shakes her head, and oh Merlin, she wants to <em> die</em>. Unbidden tears burn at her eyes, but she blinks them back and gulps down the absolute fear threatening to overcome her reasonable faculties.</p><p>“Hermione,” Narcissa says. “There is no need to apologise.” It’s an echo of her own words from earlier, but it’s not- it <em>can’t</em> be the same.</p><p>“But you’re not my <em> mum</em>, I shouldn’t have-!”</p><p>A wandless, wordless spell has zipped her lips shut. Not with a literal zipper, but<em> great</em>, now she can’t talk. She aims a petulant stare at Narcissa, to which the other woman shakes her head good-naturedly and has the <em> nerve </em>to chuckle! Hermione drags her hands down her face in exasperation and then crosses her arms on the table, laying her head in the hollow between them, shutting her eyes to the darkness.</p><p>“The brightest witch of her age has certainly heard of the concept of <em> mother figures</em>, has she not?” Narcissa says. “Even those with mothers still in their lives have them, if they are fortunate. You may have as well when you were living at Hogwarts several months out of each year.”</p><p>She lifts her head, eyes widening, heart traitorously leaping in her chest at the realisation: <em> Professor McGonagall</em>.</p><p>And blast her Gryffindor nature, because it shows so plainly on her face that Narcissa is <em> grinning </em>at her oh-so-knowingly. “Ah, it appears I’m right. Hermione, darling,” and here, as Hermione registers the warmth that rushes through her at the unexpected term of endearment, Narcissa reaches out, wrapping warm fingers around her left forearm. She flinches as the other woman inadvertently presses on the scar, and Narcissa flushes, quickly apologising and removing her hand before she continues. “I would dare say that most everyone desires a mother figure, and you have more reason than most to, due to your situation. And I…” Narcissa worries at her lip, clears her throat, but her voice is still fraught with emotion as she finishes, “I must say, I have always desired a… a daughter, to cherish. A wish that…” Her words taper off, and for a few moments, Hermione watches as Narcissa looks somewhere off into the middle distance, eyes glistening.</p><p>The vulnerability Narcissa has just <em> willingly </em> shown stuns Hermione. She blinks a few times, then taps at her still “zipped” lips, and Narcissa casts the counter to it. She’s blushing, and she swears she can see a light tinge of pink on the older witch’s pale cheeks. She never expected for anything like this to happen, but seeing the books, the toys, the way Narcissa has clearly opened herself to change over the years, speaking to her as if she’s <em> not </em>some stain upon her shoes, <em>not</em> some filthy mudblood, Hermione has let a part of herself she’s kept locked up inside of herself for years leak out.</p><p>And Narcissa… is okay with it? Might even… <em> welcome </em>it?</p><p>“You weren’t… <em> disgusted </em>… when I-?” She can’t bring herself to repeat it. Not yet. She feels so vulnerable and small again, as if she can’t take another rejection. But she also can’t accept the wild hope knocking at her heart. Not without-</p><p>Narcissa, one elbow resting on the table, covers one of her eyes partially with a hand and tilts her head to the right, towards Hermione, and softly admits, “No, Hermione, I found that I… actually liked it, very much so. And I realised something even before you said it, that here is a witch right in front of me, who never had the chance to grow up as a small child in our world. You grew up as a Muggle, with Muggle children’s books and Muggle toys, which I would <em>never</em> take away from you for they are precious memories. But I… I am selfish. I love my son, but there is so much I still did not allow myself to do with him, or he didn’t <em> want to</em>, because he was a boy. He far preferred things like toy broomsticks and play dueling with his father.”</p><p>Hermione remembers how she’d felt when she first read <em> Beedle the Bard</em>, how Ron had spoken of children’s tales she nor Harry had ever heard, and how she’d felt a pang of irrational jealousy for having been robbed of those experiences, all because Hogwarts didn’t find it pertinent to let Muggle-borns <em> know </em> they had magic until they were bloody well <em> eleven</em>, and she’d already felt much too old at that age to even venture into the Wizarding children’s books section at Flourish &amp; Blotts.</p><p>A part of her she thought she had buried is full of childlike hope from hearing Narcissa’s words, but the rest of her is still wary. So many childish wants that she’d stuffed away even further inside of herself while on the hunt for Horcruxes, so many nights spent reading and rereading <em> Beedle the Bard</em>, imagining a childhood where she knew of magic’s existence, of <em> her </em>magic.</p><p>The Kneazle stuffie jumps on the table and sits in front of her, watching her with curious eyes.</p><p>“This one really does adore you, darling,” Narcissa says. “And even in charmed soft toy form, they do not accept young witches and wizards easily. This one was… well, it was meant for Draco, but he didn’t want it, so I brought it here. I simply couldn’t let it go...”</p><p>Hermione reaches out and pets the soft fur, relishing the deep purr it emits at the touch. Forgetting herself for a moment, she cracks a small smile and whispers, “Good stuffie…”</p><p>“Would you like to have it, sweetheart?” Narcissa says, her voice quite possibly the most soothing she’s heard since she last heard her own mother’s.</p><p>Wide-eyed, Hermione looks at the blonde witch and points at her chest. “Me?”</p><p>“I don’t believe I see anyone else here with us, Hermione.”</p><p>Oh that smirk and chuckle sends her flushing what <em> must </em> be a deep crimson. The Kneazle stuffie bumps her chin and rubs against her again. She pets it and considers everything that’s passed between them this afternoon, the vulnerability in the secrets shared. The surprising intimacy grown over the course of two meetings threatens to overwhelm her, and she takes a shaky breath before looking over at Narcissa again.</p><p>“Are you… proposing anything here, Narcissa?”</p><p>A small smile tugs at Narcissa’s lips. “If you are amenable? Perhaps. I see… room here,” she motions between them with a hand, “for something special- going beyond the typical definition of mother figure into...” she pauses, “something more. Where I have always lacked a daughter of my own, you lack parents who remember you, and you were unable to experience a childhood as a witch. I see an arrangement that could prove mutually beneficial, my dear.”</p><p>Is this what it feels like to float on air? It’s not a spell, she knows how those feel against her magic, but it feels so comforting, lightweight, yet decidedly tremulous as well. While she loves her father, she was never as close to him as she was with her mother, and she’s missed the feeling of utter safety from her mum for such a long time. Even before she had erased their memories, ever since she found out she was a witch and came back from her first year at Hogwarts, an impenetrable wall had slowly arisen between them- she was experiencing something neither of her parents could ever truly understand, and while they supported and loved her, the wall stayed, and brick-by-brick it grew in size until she was hiding so much from them that trust had broken down.</p><p><em> “Hermione, love, you must know you got your smarts from somewhere, and that somewhere happens to be </em> us<em>,” her mum had said gently, gripping onto her dad’s hands at their kitchen table. It was the summer after fifth year, and of course she couldn’t hide forever. They still know how to read her face, her movements, her entire </em> being <em> like a book. “We’ve noticed each summer that you appear… worse for wear. We know we can’t understand </em> everything<em>, but is there any way we can help?” </em></p><p><em> As she shook her head, tears startlingly had started to flow from her eyes and both of her parents had come to envelop her in a tight hug. She’d sobbed right there in their arms and apologised. “I’m sorry, I </em> can’t <em> involve you both. Just…” and her voice grew so soft, “Just hold me, please?” ‘I need comfort’ went unsaid. </em></p><p>Swallowing hard, Hermione meets Narcissa’s gaze and, while fidgeting with her fingers, nods. “I’m… amenable, to trying… <em> something</em>. But this doesn’t mean you’re taking the place of my mother, Narcissa. But gods, I’ve missed…” she shook her head, looking down at her outstretched fingers, palm side up. A moment later, they’re stilled by both of Narcissa’s hands covering her own, rubbing soothing motions on her skin that send immense warmth through her, something that has become far too foreign to her.</p><p>“I’ll never take the place of your natural mother, Hermione, nor do I wish to. But if we can both ease each other’s desires, I am sure that we will both be the better for it. Allow me to start considering the details,” Narcissa states, and to Hermione’s own surprise, she agrees to something completely unknown to her.</p><p>The chills don't visit as often during the next week as she remembers Narcissa’s considerable gentleness with her.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>It’s not easy.</p><p>She does enjoy tracing her fingers over Narcissa’s delicate cursive script, quite clearly a product of formal lessons in her childhood. She does cuddle with the Kneazle stuffie that Narcissa has graciously given to her, but it’s so <em> difficult </em>to allow herself to slip back into what she’s termed as “small space.” She writes about this to Narcissa, and the older woman suggests they start small, meeting to speak adult-to-adult at a coffee shop on Lateral Arcade, an offshoot alley from Diagon. The meeting takes place about a month after her visit to the Black family cottage, after several letters sent between her flat and one of the Black family homes- letters that have allowed them both to open up further to each other, bit by bit, and discuss what they would like to try in this new, tentative relationship of sorts.</p><p>“How is your work at the Ministry going?” Narcissa asks her as they wait for their coffee orders- the blonde witch has ordered a black like her name, while Hermione has asked for a decaf. Hermione says what she can, what the Department of Mysteries has cleared out of confidential filing, which is mostly her advanced work on clearing ancient wards situated across the country. Once they have their drinks, she speaks about her time in Northern Ireland, studying wards that had sealed the bottom of Noon’s Hole for several centuries. What they’d <em> found </em> however, “That’s unfortunately still classified.”</p><p>“A pity,” Narcissa states, sipping at her coffee. “But I shall be rather interested to hear what it is the department has found whenever it is declassified.”</p><p>The cadence of Narcissa’s voice, the openness of her gaze, and those impossibly warm smiles she sends her way serve to reassure Hermione that this witch still has no ill intentions towards her. And well, if she had, she could have already spilled it all to Rita Skeeter, who somehow <em> still </em>has her bloody job at the Daily Prophet. After their coffee is drained, they stay for another forty minutes, and Hermione finds herself starting to talk about what she never could with her own mother. She notices Narcissa’s eyes widen at appropriate times as she talks about the strain her Hogwarts years put on her, and the events of what should have been her seventh year tumble out.</p><p>“Magic was supposed to be <em> fun</em>, and it was in the beginning,” she says, drawing comfort and some strength from Narcissa’s touch to her hand that lay on the table. “This was a whole new world- I never told my parents this, but I never quite felt I belonged in the Muggle world, not entirely?”</p><p>Narcissa nods. “Understandable, dear- being a witch is something intrinsic to our being, and now more than ever I see how regrettable it is that Muggle-borns like yourself are kept from the knowledge of <em> who you are </em>for eleven years.”</p><p>Eleven bloody years.</p><p>She finds she can’t find the words to express herself any longer, only makes plain eye contact with Narcissa and invites her to see the forefront of her thoughts as she starts slipping. It’s something else she wants to test with the woman, the immense vulnerability in <em> letting </em> someone see her barest self. She’s skilled enough in Occlumency by now to easily build her defences, but she leaves them down this time, Narcissa’s eyes studying her, gently entering her mind, reading her, <em> seeing </em>her.</p><p>After Narcissa's presence softly withdraws from her mind, the <em> muffliato </em>cast over their table comes down, and Hermione finds herself implicitly surrendering herself to the hold Narcissa has on her hand, guiding her out of the coffee shop. She’s asked if she would like to apparate to her flat, because her thoughts displayed a want for her Kneazle stuffie. She tells Narcissa that she doesn’t feel like she can apparate right now, her mind’s “fuzzy” Narcissa cements, and they instead take to the Muggle side of London and walk what isn’t actually that long of a trek to her flat.</p><p>After inviting Narcissa in, Hermione steps into her bedroom and gets the Kneazle, holding it close to her chest as she finds Narcissa sitting on her sofa. The other witch could have been walking around the flat, taking it all in, but she only has eyes for Hermione. Or at least the first thing she notices when coming out of her room is Narcissa’s eyes on her. They study each other for a moment.</p><p>Finally, Narcissa murmurs, “Come here, darling,” and Hermione cannot say no to such a tender tone. Ever presently holding onto the Kneazle, she sits next to Narcissa, but still leaves enough space between them because she’s simply not <em> sure</em>. But then the blonde witch is repeating herself, with the addition of only two more words, “please come over <em> here</em>, darling,” and her voice sends a warmth through her that’s much like what she’s experienced from holding her palms before lit fireplaces.</p><p>She moves closer, sits so that their thighs are touching, and can’t help but sigh in contentment as Narcissa wraps an arm around her waistline, pulling her even closer to her side. Hermione watches with half-lidded eyes as Narcissa reaches with her other hand to allow her Kneazle access to sniff her, another part of its charmed nature. After a few moments, the stuffie butts its muzzle against Narcissa’s hand.</p><p>“Have you named it, sweetheart?” Narcissa asks, and Hermione nods.</p><p>“Mhmm. Medusa, for ‘she who protects.’”</p><p>She preens at the hum of approval from Narcissa and allows herself to settle into the other woman’s side even more, until eventually she finds herself completely laying down, her head resting on Narcissa’s lap, the Kneazle- Medusa- still within her arms. Narcissa’s hand has moved to her hair, effortlessly switching between softly scratching at her scalp and running her fingers through her brown curls.</p><p>Right on the edge of sleep, she’s not entirely sure, but she likes to believe that Narcissa has pressed a kiss to her head before she succumbs entirely. She isn’t sure how long she’s been asleep when she wakes, but remembers having the most pleasant dream- she and her mother sitting on the swinging bench in the back garden of their home, her mother watching as she casts <em> avis </em>and out bursts a small flock of friendly birds from the tip of her wand. She can’t help but grin at her mum’s praise, but-</p><p>“Mum,” she whispers, <em> wanting</em>, still hanging on the edge between sleep and wakefulness. At someone’s grip tightening on her- not a painful grip, but steady and so decidedly <em> safe</em>- Hermione blinks her eyes open and turns to face the ceiling, finding- oh, yes, Narcissa gazing down at her fondly. “Oh... hi,” she murmurs to the older witch.</p><p>“Hello, my darling girl,” Narcissa says, and her words weave themselves around Hermione’s brain like a warm, comforting embrace. “You were out not too long, but it’s autumn, so it’s already dark.” Hermione blinks up at Narcissa, the words taking their sweet time to settle over her still slightly fuzzy brain, but when they do, she nearly bolts up, suddenly returning to herself. But Narcissa has placed a firm hand on her breastbone, shushing her and urging her to relax.</p><p>“But- but,” Hermione sputters, brown eyes blown wide, “haven’t I made you late for something? Your calendar can’t be completely clear, you’re a <em> Black</em>!”</p><p>Narcissa’s light laughter washes over her, but it’s not to make fun of her. She could almost swear she saw Narcissa’s eyes glistening as the older woman tucks locks of hair behind Hermione’s ears and simply says, “And as a <em> Black</em>, I have the luxury of deciding where I spend my time, and no one dares to question what or <em> whom </em> I deem important enough to skive out on prior engagements.”</p><p>Heart thundering in her chest, Hermione registers the implications of what Narcissa has told her. “I’m… <em> important </em> to you?” The question is simple enough, one that can be answered with a <em> yes </em> or <em> no</em>, but it feels enormously heavy coming out of her mouth. Narcissa’s eyes wander over her face, an easy smile gracing her features. The blonde strokes Hermione’s cheekbone with the back of her hand and nods.</p><p>She takes the nod as a yes, but Narcissa goes further, parting her lips and saying, “Much more important than a silly social ball, my sweet girl, and,” she presses a finger to Hermione’s lips, “Draco and Astoria are always on standby if I fail to show an hour beforehand. My house-elves, generously compensated, always have all of my notes ready for them.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” is all she finds herself saying, but that’s clearly enough for Narcissa, who immediately brings Hermione’s head so close, right next to Narcissa’s abdomen, and the strong yet warm and delightful grip has her giggling, squirming slightly on the sofa. And it’s the first time she says it while wide-awake.</p><p>“<em>Mum!</em>” she draws out the word, nearly a whine.</p><p>She shocks herself into stillness, careful eyes flitting to meet Narcissa’s, and for a moment she’s apprehensive, but she’s only met with what she can easily describe as one of the most tender gazes she’s had directed at her in years. It’s so <em> motherly </em>that her breath catches in the back of her throat and she works to blink away tears that threaten to spill over her lashes.</p><p>“Oh, my lovely girl, don’t cry,” Narcissa says in such a lilting, soothing tone, that she can’t help <em> but </em>cry. Only a little, though, and as she sniffles, stopping the tears, Narcissa wipes the moisture from her cheeks. “You are,” she flushes as the other woman presses feather-light kisses all over her face, the last peppered at the edge of her lips, “such a delight. Now that you’ve gotten Medusa and had a bit of a nap, would you like to visit the cottage with me? Hm?”</p><p>Hermione knows she’d love nothing <em>but </em>that, and Narcissa has essentially no other pressing duties tonight considering she’s skived off her socialite evening for her, but she’s… “I’m tired, Mummy,” and she tries her best to communicate that it’s not so much a physical fatigue as it is emotional. Words are coming and going, and she merely doesn’t have the capacity in her vocabulary right now to adequately express herself. She finds she doesn’t quite mind, though, and an understanding passes over Narcissa’s face.</p><p>With what must have been a wordless feather-light charm cast on her, Narcissa easily lifts her into her arms and takes her into her bedroom. The older witch settles her on the bed and offers to stay, but however much Hermione <em> wants</em>, she… she can’t give it to herself. Narcissa smiles in understanding, leaving her be after gently tucking her in, and Hermione swears later that she <em> watched </em> her shut the bedroom door before succumbing to sleep, so she’s surprised when she finds a letter from her sitting on her bedside table when she wakes the next morning. (Perhaps she <em> had </em>been more physically tired than she had guessed.)</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> Hermione, </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Oh, I can bring myself to easily say endearments to you in-person, but addressing letters to you with them- we’ve a bit of a way to go, haven’t we? To accepting this, fully and truly? It is one thing to write each other, another to make a go of this in the flesh. But I know that I enjoyed it, and from what I saw- your reactions, your willingness to try, you did as well. I would like for us to meet again at Black cottage when you feel up to it. We can take all the time in the world while we continue to write each other. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Though I must yet again admit that I am selfish and would present a few dates for your perusal on the back of this parchment. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Do not feel rushed, but please continue to write. I would love to hear from you in any manner you wish to present yourself. Do be well. </em>
  </p>
  <p><em> With much affection, </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Narcissa </em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She does not deserve- <em> no, you do</em>, the aching, childlike voice comes through (so <em> selfish, selfish, selfish</em>). The two vials of blood she had taken from her own body with an intricate spell, infused with copies of every strong memory of her relationship with her parents, had gone into the memory restoration potion. She had known the risks, known the reason for the chills that took over her body after- she was missing something so essential, so <em> needed</em>, that it ripped from her her ability to keep her own body temperature consistent. She had infused some of her intrinsic <em> warmth </em>into the potion, infusing it with the vials and those memories, those affections for her parents. Taken it from herself, all to get them back. Once she got them back, she’d feel warm again, she’d feel <em>herself.</em></p><p>And when that had failed, that warmth was taken away... for good? She had no idea if she <em> could </em> ever get it back, but she hadn’t looked into it, felt she deserved it for what she had taken from them without their consent. The warmth of parents who had loved her, taken, her own warmth splintered in her attempt to restore what she had ultimately destroyed beyond repair, like a star gone black dwarf. She had felt so, <em> so </em>cold in the middle of summer, and heating charms only did so much for so long. Mrs. Weasley had done her absolute best to help her, but nothing worked. She lied to everyone and said not even Healers at St. Mungo’s were able to help, though she never actually sought them out. Eventually, for the most part, she became used to her lower body temperature, though chills still come and go.</p><p>Lying has steadily come all the more easier to her with time, and she rightly blames Harry and Ron for being terrible influences. She doesn’t write back to Narcissa immediately, however much she wants to. She knows she’ll face the temptation to fall into small space again, and she simply can’t allow it, and she fights herself on the issue of <em>deserving </em>throughout the workday. For the first time, her supervisor has to snap his fingers in front of her face several times before she comes out of a daze. Hermione Granger doesn’t fall into <em>stupors</em>, she’d been the only one in their class at Hogwarts to stay awake for Professor Binn’s lectures! She has to provide half a lie to her supervisor, trying to avoid being sent home, but he won’t hear it.</p><p>She spends the next two weeks flitting in and out of arguments with herself, torn between selfishness and self-castigation for permitting herself to seek something she’d been missing in her life in Narcissa Black. At the end of the second week, she has six letters from Narcissa, each more fervently candid than the previous. <em> Hermione</em>, the first one starts, then gradually turns into <em> Oh, my dear, sweet girl, </em> by the sixth. She’s hurting Narcissa, and she knows it by the way she writes, and she hates herself for ever agreeing to trying this with the older woman, because this is all it would ever end in: hurt, doubled.</p><p>At the start of the third week, she replies with a lie: <em>We gave this a try, but I don’t want to try anymore. Thank you for everything. I’ve attached a magical contract that will bind us to keeping this a secret if you wish to sign. I won’t tell anyone, but I can understand if you want reassurance.</em> She keeps Medusa, though.</p><p>Four months pass by, and the old year fades into the winter of 2006. It’s during late February as a light snow falls outside her charmed office window that she has a visitor in the form of Narcissa Black. Her eyes widen at the sight of the blonde witch, but she sets aside her parchment work and invites her to sit down. She can’t see a reason for Narcissa to be here on official business, she’s not an Unspeakable, and how has she even <em> found </em> her office at that? She’s made it intentionally difficult for many reasons. For the life of her, she doesn’t understand why she’s so patient with the older woman, she <em> does </em>have work to do, but she watches as Narcissa gathers whatever words she needs.</p><p>And when she says them, they’re like an icicle stabbing her heart clear through.</p><p>“Astoria is with child- a boy, the Healers have confirmed. I’ve come to ask for the Kneazle back, Miss Granger.” Her pale blue eyes are unreadable. After a moment of gaping, Hermione snaps her jaw shut and grits her teeth together as she remembers-</p><p>
  <em> “Would you like to have it, sweetheart?” </em>
</p><p>Narcissa hasn’t forgotten. She also remembers what the soft toy means to Hermione, and she wants it back despite everything. Despite the fact that there are countless other stuffies for her to buy for her grandson. Not to mention, the thing is simply too large for a newborn baby to hold- it could <em> suffocate </em> a child under the age of… two, she supposes? and items aren’t meant to be re-sized for months on end, the magic simply wouldn’t hold. This isn’t about the stuffie. This isn’t- she’s gone back to calling her <em> Miss Granger</em>, for Merlin’s sake!</p><p>She schools her features into placidity and offers to send the stuffed Kneazle back to Black cottage, but Narcissa won’t hear of it. She simply <em> has </em> to retrieve it herself from Hermione’s flat and won’t take no for an answer. But Hermione, by Godric <em> fucking </em> Gryffindor, won’t let Narcissa trample over her after- after… had it all meant <em> nothing </em> to her? She won’t cry. She won’t. She takes a few calming breaths and says she will send the bloody thing to the cottage, and that is <em> final</em>, and she <em> will </em>call security if Narcissa doesn’t leave immediately.</p><p>The door is locked with several charms after Narcissa lets herself out and Hermione still doesn’t cry. She pulls her thick outer cloak around her Unspeakable robes and casts a heating charm on herself and dives back into work.</p><p>She never should have trusted a Malfoy. Former Malfoy. It doesn’t matter.</p><p>Medusa whines as she’s put inside of a package and Hermione wishes she knew how to reset her. She idly wonders if there’s a way to reset <em> herself </em> as she spellotapes the package and takes it to the owlery in Diagon Alley where she drops it off for the fastest owl delivery time she can afford. The quicker she can work on forgetting all of this, the better. It had always been too good to be true. She’d been blinded by her grief, by the way Narcissa had taken her in, but what had <em>Narcissa</em> gotten out of it? She still can’t find any trace of her <em> inclination </em>making its way onto any publication, and she keeps her eyes on every single one.</p><p>Draco is the next person associated with the Malfoy name to venture into her office. It’s the end of March, and she wishes she was high enough up to have her own secretary, because <em> damn it</em>, she has work to do and she <em> doesn’t </em> need any more pure-blooded blondes coming in and wrecking her concentration for the rest of the day. But he takes a seat for himself without so much as a <em> hello </em> and so she simply asks, “Why are your eyes bloodshot, Malfoy?”</p><p>He stares blankly at her, then seems to finally comprehend her words and blinks. He opens and closes his mouth several times before finally muttering, “Mother is having nightmares again. She hasn’t had them in years.”</p><p>“And why does this concern me?” She honestly doesn’t want to know. But she also <em> does</em>, and the two opposite notions are battling it out in her head until they’re both absolutely knocked out by his answer.</p><p>“They’re about <em> you</em>, Granger. She bloody well screams <em> your </em>name like she did sometimes for the first year and half after the war ended.” The blond groans and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands and stamps a foot on the carpet, swearing something about being a dolt for agreeing to not take any potions that his pregnant wife couldn’t. Hermione sets her quill into the holder at the corner of her desk and stands up, knowing better than to try and get Malfoy to leave empty-handed. Either she’s walking into hell, or she’s walking into hell, and she’d rather get it over with sooner than later.</p><p>Her supervisor allows her the rest of the day off, gracious wizard that he is- she owes him a grand birthday present once August comes around, so she winds up side-along apparating with Malfoy to a beach side property- Black or Malfoy-owned, she doesn’t care. It’s much smaller than Malfoy Manor, but larger than the Black family cottage. Astoria is sitting on a swinging bench that looks out on the sea, the swell of her belly giving away that she’s likely in her second trimester. She finds herself glad to see the almost-stranger looks better for wear than her husband- at least it shows that he’s taking care of her.</p><p>“Hermione,” the younger woman says, starting to stand, but her husband rushes over and reassures her that he’s “got everything settled, just stay put, all right, love?” and oh Merlin, she’s nearly envious. Draco Malfoy is turning into a caring <em> family man</em>. Her younger self would have a riot at the mere thought of it. But her ears perk up at Astoria’s voice again, imploring her, “Please help my mother-in-law. I don’t know what’s happened to make her nightmares come back- Draco’s told me about them from before- but you’re the only one still alive that she yells for in the middle of the night. The house-elves at Black Manor and Black cottage tried everything, but had to eventually bring her here. We’ve tried <em> everything </em>we knew of before contacting you, Hermione.”</p><p>She swallows and nods, deciding to do this for Astoria- the woman needs her sleep, needs peace for her and Malfoy’s child to flourish within her. She tells herself she’s not doing it for Narcissa, and she holds that conviction bone tight as the older woman's son leads her through the property until a house-elf appears before them, informing, “Master Draco, Reedsy is finding Mistress Narcissa sleeping in the library! Is Reedsy needing to wake Mistress Narcissa?”</p><p>Malfoy looks on the verge of saying yes to the elf, but he minutely turns his head towards her and snaps his jaw shut, shaking his head. “Not this time, Reedsy. We will wake her if it is needed. Thank you, though.”</p><p>“Master Draco is most welcome! Reedsy is attending to the second floor now. Master Malfoy <em> must </em>be calling if he is needing anything!” And with that, the house-elf is gone with a snap of his spindly fingers and a soft pop. Hermione holds her tongue, but is inwardly amazed at how cordially Malfoy has acted towards the house-elf. She knows he’s changed, but didn’t expect it to extend to his treatment towards those that he had previously deemed even lesser creatures than mudbloods.</p><p>She starts to regret her internally given compliment to the blond wizard as they get nearer to what must be the library- disquieting noises come from behind shut double doors, and when Malfoy opens them, Hermione doesn’t have to look around far before finding Narcissa laying on a lengthy sofa, pillow pushed underneath her head- certainly a house-elf’s doing- and it’s, yes, it’s <em> she </em> who is making said noises, whimpering while every so often her fingers tremble. Malfoy gestures her forward, and she should leave, should run away, but she <em> can’t</em>. She feels utterly rooted to this room, drawn into Narcissa’s orbit, and settles down next to the woman, knees resting on the plush carpet.</p><p>This is not the sleeping face an expecting grandmother should have during sleep. Eyelids fluttering, slight wrinkles marring a face that is otherwise nearly untouched by age, it’s clearer than ever that Narcissa Black is in the midst of a nightmare. Hermione fights an inexplicable urge to reach out and touch the other woman’s cheek, or even run light fingertips through her loosened blonde hair.</p><p>It’s at the first scream that she falls back onto her bum, eyes blown wide.</p><p>She screamed <em> her </em>name.</p><p>
  <em> Hermione. </em>
</p><p>“What the <em> fuck</em>?” she whispers harshly, looking back at Draco with the same wide eyes- because of course, after all this, he can’t be <em> Malfoy </em> any more, what the <em> hell</em>. His lips are drawn into a tight line, his own grey eyes narrowed at her before he turns on his heel and leaves before she can even scramble up to her feet. When she reaches the doors he’s shut behind him, she finds them locked, and none of the unlocking spells she knows are <em> working</em>, not even <em> finite incantatem</em>!</p><p>She groans, her forehead resting against the door, which is met by another scream from Narcissa, and then Hermione screams because for some god awful reason her brain hasn't quite caught up yet to keep on <em> expecting </em> screaming, and, Merlin-</p><p>"Hermione?!"</p><p>She spins around so quickly that she knocks her forehead against something and hisses in absolute hot, <em> searing </em> pain. Swearing loudly, she raises her hand to her forehead and looks to find the culprit: a directory of the library that wants to pester her about finding a book that she, for once, isn’t in a library for. She takes a moment to reflect that her pain had been accompanied by <em> heat</em>, which hasn't happened in-</p><p>Catching Narcissa saying her given name again in that incredulous manner, followed by a, "what are you doing here?" she turns ninety degrees to her right and can't help but smile weakly in the older witch's direction. She'd called her by her first name again.</p><p>"Your son came to the Ministry to get me, because you've been having nightmares again and screaming my name during them. And no-” she cuts off the blonde witch, “don’t even try to convince me you don’t. Draco made sure I <em> heard </em>it. He and your daughter-in-law are at their wit’s end for him to find my office, considering how difficult it is to locate. Now,” she closes the distance between them and, pinching the bridge of her nose, says, “I’m sure you don’t want the subject of your nightmare here, but whatever happened between us, you don’t deserve them.”</p><p>Hermione watches as Narcissa sits back up, smoothing out her robes. The witch pats a space next to her on the sofa, where the topmost portion of her body had been laying a few moments before. She sits, but not before grabbing up the pillow Narcissa’s head had been on, placing it against her stomach and holding it within her arms like a security blanket. This isn’t how she pictured her day going at all. She’d resigned herself to never speaking with the other woman again, unless they exchanged small talk at a shop, which wasn’t that likely considering she didn’t <em>like</em> small talk, and she doubted Narcissa was a fan of it either, though she clearly had to partake in it at her social gatherings.</p><p>“I will have to give Draco a talking to later,” Narcissa laments with a sigh. “But, Hermione, do please refrain from making assumptions.” The older witch’s pale blue eyes meet her own and Hermione notices the lack of effort on Narcissa’s part to conceal her emotions behind a cool gaze- a lack of sleep, surely, has affected her greatly. There is an ache, a melancholy to the blonde’s stare, and it renders Hermione speechless for a moment.</p><p>She manages to gather herself together and ask, after clearing her throat, “What do you mean, making assumptions?” Narcissa crosses her legs and rubs at her temples.</p><p>“You cannot be sure that I do <em> not </em> want you here. You-” she groans and lifts her face to cast a look out of the glass domed ceiling, then looks back at her. “Hermione, you presume too much, and I realise, seeing you now, that part of the blame lies with myself for not responding to your letter all those months ago. But you seemed so… dead-set against it, providing that blasted <em> contract</em>, that I did not wish to make you...” Narcissa has gotten up and started to pace while she talks, gesticulating with her hands, and Hermione is enthralled at her ardor, even if it is cast in something of a disparaging light towards herself. What she is swiftly understanding, though, is how much she’s messed up. She didn’t allow Narcissa the room to even <em>meet</em> with her and discuss <em> why </em>she truly hadn’t wanted to try anymore. She had effectively decided for them both, as if she had the right to make decisions for the both of them.</p><p>“Oh <em> god</em>,” the whisper comes out of her like a buffeting wind pushing her over, and is followed right away with a whimper. She’s <em>completely</em> messed everything up because of her own still lingering psychological issues, things she has never settled with any sort of professional help, left to fester and rot in her mind. The floor isn’t interesting at all, but it’s all she can bring herself to look at. She doesn’t notice pacing footsteps come to a halt, but is brought back as Narcissa settles on her knees in front of her, newfound concern painting her refined features. Hermione doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to be here and see what she doesn’t-</p><p>Breathing heavily, heart fit to burst out of her chest the way it’s palpitating, she feels like she’s going to pass out. Is that her whimpering out loud, or is it only in her mind? She doesn’t know what’s happening to her besides an acute sense that she must be going mad. She must be asleep back at her office at the Ministry, and she only hopes that she doesn’t bring anyone rushing to her with any screams. She doesn’t want this to be real, because if it is, she’s been an infinitely terrible person, and she doesn’t know how to come back from it. She shouldn’t <em> get </em>to come back from it, she doesn’t-</p><p>“I didn’t think I deserved it, what we had,” she whispers the confession, so low she doubts Narcissa can hear her, but of course she does, and there’s hands on her knees now, blue eyes observing her with an intensity that makes her feel like she’s bared her naked body to the other woman. “I <em> don’t </em> deserve it, after what I did to them, what I- what I <em>stole </em>from them. I don't deserve <em>any </em>kind of love after that. I should have… explained it better. I knew I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m <em>so</em> sor-”</p><p>“<em>Hermione</em>,” Narcissa rasps, and she’s forced by the older woman’s hand to look into her eyes. Her… glistening blue eyes. Hermione blinks and watches as Narcissa moves in one fluid motion to come and sit next to her on the sofa, reaching out and holding both of her hands within her paler ones, asking her to, “please, <em>please </em>look at me, my darling.” She swallows hard at the gently uttered command and looks up through her lashes at brilliantly blue irises. Narcissa places fingers under her chin and applies small pressure until Hermione raises her head some more.</p><p>“You should have <em> told </em> me about this,” she says as her fingers stay underneath Hermione’s chin, caressing the skin lightly. “What happened with your parents <em> was </em> grievous, but you need to stop <em> punishing yourself </em> for what is done. Would your parents have <em> wanted </em> you to inflict such penance on yourself?”</p><p>“That’s <em> it</em>, though- I don’t know <em> what </em> they would have wanted!” she exclaims, tears pooling at the edge of her eyelids. She blinks them back and takes hold of the blonde’s wrist, but in doing so only opens herself to Narcissa pulling her into an embrace. Her head rests on the other woman’s chest, and she feels a hand at her back and another curling into the back of her hair before moving in smooth stroking motions.</p><p>Above her, Narcissa breathes out, “I may have never met your parents, dear girl, but as a parent myself, I would <em>never </em>wish upon my child a lifetime of self-punishment. You clearly understand the gravity of what transpired, and you are <em>needlessly </em>presuming that only you know what you do and do not deserve, but <em>you</em> are your harshest judge, and you are far too close to the situation to place that kind of penance on yourself.”</p><p>Hermione huffs into Narcissa’s robes and draws her head back to look at her again. “But what of yourself? These nightmares… you- you don’t deserve them. I- I made them come back, didn’t I? How can you sit here and not throw me out for that?” </p><p>“Well,” Narcissa brings two fingers up and strokes Hermione’s cheek, an old warmth blooming where the pale fingers touch her skin. “Simply because you freely admitted the truth, and knowing now that it wasn’t expressly on <em>me</em> for stopping ‘what we had,’ I know that these nightmares will fade away once more. I… worried, that I had hurt you somehow, that I had misconstrued something terribly, irrevocably, and that was why you did not wish to try anymore. Thinking on these possibilities brought back the nightmares of… that night. We both assumed wrongly. And now... we are learning from our mistakes- will you join me in embracing candor in our discussions from now on, to the best of our abilities? It is something you are certainly more adept at than I- it is not a trait that comes to Slytherins so easily, but I will try my utmost for you.”</p><p>Hermione lets the words wash over her like a welcome cooling balm, and it’s now that she recognises it: her intrinsic warmth is returning, slowly seeping back in. The coolness that came over her wasn’t a painful addition to an already present cold nature, but something like pleasurable goose pimples at someone’s gentle voice suddenly at her ear while sitting warm in front of a fire. A rush of warmth courses through her after she agrees to directness in her… relationship? with Narcissa, and the other witch draws her close again, murmuring, “Thank you so, <em> so </em> much, Hermione, my lovely, sweet, <em> dearest </em> girl. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”</p><p>Hermione snuggles in closer, delighting in the smell of lavender and vanilla on the older woman. She feels safe again, calmed, and most importantly, understood and accepted. But what makes her simply <em> preen </em>before the other witch is Narcissa praising her, whispering right next to her ear that, “You were such a brave girl for coming here and facing me, revealing what you did. I do believe you’ve more than earned a trip to Black cottage, hm? What does my good girl think of that?”</p><p>Hermione slips further towards small space, warms at the thought and nods, supplying a, “Mhmm, that… sounds good,” as her answer. Narcissa runs her fingers through Hermione’s curls before pulling away and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead once she pushes her fringe slightly out of the way. She raises her eyes to Narcissa’s and tentatively tests it again- “You think I’m a good girl, M-mummy?”</p><p>Oh, she gets a positive answer, all right- Narcissa’s eyes shine and with a loving smile directed at her, she hears, “Not just <em> good</em>, my dear, but simply the <em> best </em>girl Mummy could ever ask for.” Hands gently grasp both sides of her head and pull her to a rest underneath Narcissa’s chin, some… Wizarding lullaby? she supposes, coming out as a soothing hum from the older woman. “Would you like to go there now, dear? I would only need to write a note to my son before we go.”</p><p>She nods. There is so, <em> so </em> much about Wizarding culture she still has never experienced, thrust into this world without the background that pure-blood and most half-bloods received from birth. And she realises now, before she slips even further into that small space, that she <em> deserves </em> to know, and really- all Muggle-borns do, though... perhaps, <em>definitely</em> not in this same way. The adult part of her mind files the thought away- pairing interested Muggle-borns with pure-blood and half-blood wizards and witches, to teach them what they were never taught at Hogwarts about the culture they were not born into. Through no fault of their own. Or maybe, though she knows it’s a radical idea, letting Muggle-borns <em> know </em>they are magical at a younger age?</p><p>She’ll come back around to those thoughts later. For now, she allows herself to continue to slip and drapes herself over the back of Narcissa’s seat, lazily resting her arms around the older witch’s neck as she writes a note to Draco. The blonde takes her non-dominant hand that isn’t writing and brings it towards her chest to gently rub against the back of Hermione’s hand. When she finishes, she leaves it with a gentle tugging magic that will bring her son shortly to find it, and they apparate together to Black cottage.</p><p>With an <em> accio </em> from Narcissa after their arrival, the Kneazle stuffie lands in the older witch’s hands. Hermione is still holding onto Narcissa’s left arm, but at the appearance of… “is she still… Medusa?” to which the blonde witch confirms, she lifts her left arm and allows the stuffie to sniff at her. After a few moments, the Kneazle begins to purr loudly and struggles to remove herself from Narcissa’s hold. She loosens her grip on it only for the stuffie to pounce on Hermione’s shoulder, wrapping her tail around the back of her neck. She giggles and rests her forehead against the edge of Narcissa’s shoulder.</p><p>“I am so sorry for taking her away from you, my darling little one,” Narcissa’s voice is slightly muffled by the kisses she is peppering the top of Hermione’s head with. “I was hurt, and I took it out on you. A mummy shouldn’t do that to her baby girl.” Hermione only nods, though a immeasurably pleasurable warmth shocks her system and she feels it yet again- what was taken from her in her failed magic to bring her parents back is returning to her. Slowly, but surely, and perhaps she’ll talk to Narcissa about it someday, among other things. Perhaps she will visit St. Mungo’s in due time. Perhaps she’ll someday have it <em>all</em> return, or perhaps some small part of her will always stay cold, reminding her. Right now, she doesn’t quite care to give it any more thought. What she <em> wants </em> is to lay down and nap after the day she’s had, and after confiding that simple wish to Narcissa, she is led into the cottage’s bedroom, where Medusa leaps onto the mattress once the bed is unmade with a flourish of Narcissa’s wand.</p><p>Delicately, she is sat down on the edge of the bed by the older witch, and allows her to undress her bit by bit until only her trousers and high-necked blouse remain. With her consent, Narcissa undoes the top three buttons so that Hermione’s neck and upper chest can breathe, then she pulls her legs up onto the mattress, moving towards the left side until she finds a comfortable spot. In a couple more minutes, the mattress dips again with the blonde’s weight, and Hermione turns to watch as Narcissa slides in under the covers as well. Unable to hide her smile, Hermione isn’t sure if she’s young <em> enough </em>yet for cuddling with Mummy to help her fall asleep, but Narcissa’s questioning blue eyes and slightly extended arm make her <em> enough</em>.</p><p>Scooting herself closer to Narcissa, Hermione looks up through her eyelashes. Narcissa is smiling, which makes a smile tug at her lips as well. Bashfully, she closes the rest of the distance and sighs in content as Narcissa wraps her arms around her torso, pulling their bodies flush against each other. The warmth of Narcissa’s body seeps into her skin, and she cuddles closer until she can almost hear the other witch’s heartbeat. The faint thrum soothes her further, and just on the edge of sleep, she nuzzles into Narcissa’s collarbone and whispers, “Love you, Mummy,” to which Narcissa- no, <em> Mummy</em>- tightens her hold slightly and presses a kiss to her head again before murmuring back, “Mummy loves you, too, my sweet, darling baby girl.”</p><p>No chills nor nightmares disturb them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
<i>when you're tired of the dark nights</i><br/>
<i>and need someone to hold</i><br/>
<i>i'll be your fire in the cold rain</i>
</p><p>- "let you go" by illenium</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the warmth of the sun has come</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, I wrote 15k words for this and promptly threw the vast majority of them out, save for maybe... 2k or less that I added in to this? Yeah. Basically rewrote the entire thing lol. This chapter starts a few hours from where the first ends. Also, it's not beta read, same as the first chapter- please forgive any typos I've missed.</p><p>I’m not sure where the line is that separates age play from infantilism, but I added that tag and age regression/de-aging just in case. (There is no physical regression, aka making Hermione a literal child with a spell.) Everything related to these continues to stay non-sexual in this fic and separate from the rest of the relationship. Also, please check for newly added tags (everything past the EWE tag happens in this chapter). I have tried to include everything added in this chapter, even if it's only mentioned for a few paragraphs. If I've forgotten something, please let me know.</p><p>Credit to these songs for inspiring me while writing this fic:</p><p>There Was No Love Left In Me<br/>I Seem To Find You In Everything<br/>It's A Cruel World (But You Took Me Away From It All)<br/><i>all by Owsey</i></p><p>Hold <i>by Noble Oak</i></p><p>Let You Go <i>by Illenium</i></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Warmth rushes through her when she wakes- a decidedly odd occurrence. She fidgets under the covers, slowly blinking her eyes open to a darkened bedroom that isn’t her own. And someone’s holding onto her. She- what’s she doing- <em> oh</em>. Hermione’s eyes rove over the face so close to her own- those aristocratic features, delicate eyelashes and sculpted brows, not to mention the silky blonde hair. She doesn’t need to see pale blue eyes to know that this is Narcissa Black. That she is lying in bed with her, that she’d essentially bore her <em> soul </em> to the other woman so plainly some hours prior. It still feels so raw.</p><p>Swallowing, Hermione disentangles herself from Narcissa and moves over slightly, setting her pillow against the headboard before sitting up against it, pulling her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on her hands as she crosses her arms over her kneecaps, staring down an inquisitive Medusa. Bore her soul, all right, except for- <em> shite</em>. Whatever warmth she’d felt before is replaced with a shiver that makes the mattress itself tremble slightly beneath her, and Medusa is making soft noises as she pads over to rest at her feet. She should get up before Narcissa wakes, she should-</p><p>With a quivering exhale, Hermione turns about in bed and slides out from under the covers, padding softly towards the sitting room, casting one glance back as Medusa looks between her and Narcissa. She raises a finger to her lips before unsheathing her wand and disapparating back to her flat because once she’s there, she can pretend that this has never happened. That she- that she what, exactly? As she walks over to her sofa and sits down, shoving her face into her hands as she continues to shudder from her cold body, she can’t think of one good, valid reason as to why she left. She’s so used to lying, to hiding, to sinking with guilt and questioning whether she <em> deserves</em>, that she simply… doesn’t know how to handle <em> acceptance </em> and <em> reason</em>. So she ran away. Such a horrid example of a Gryffindor she’s become.</p><p>She summons her otter stuffie from her room and lays down on the sofa with it clutched to her chest, trying to quell the panic attack rising within her. Because she’s realising too late again that she’s making the <em> same </em> mistake she did earlier, but how can she apparate back to Narcissa <em> now</em>, how can she presume that she would take her back? Oh Merlin, her hands are trembling, she’s squeezing the otter with such force as she- oh <em> gods</em>, how does breathing work again? She’s frozen, shaking with tremors from the chill nearly overcoming her.</p><p>A sudden, loud crack in her flat startles her out of the building panic attack, if only for a moment. She darts up, the otter stuffie cast aside, her wand already unsheathed like the battle-hardened, still somewhat jumpy witch she is from the Second Wizarding War, but it’s… oh sodding hell. It’s Narcissa. She’s gotten through her wards, because… she knows her to a degree of intimate familiarity and the other witch… means her no harm. The ward to rule over every other ward, at least in her opinion. At least for her own residence. The blonde witch is eyeing her, or is that glaring? It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but she’s got Medusa on her shoulder, the Kneazle’s tail flicking in some negative mood, and Hermione instinctively tries to make herself smaller, sitting back down on the sofa, begging her magic to make her disappear entirely when suddenly a figure falls to their knees before her- <em> Narcissa</em>, her brain quietly supplies- and pulls her down until they’re both on the expanse of the maroon rug she purchased ages ago, her wand tugged out of her hand before she’s wrapped up in Narcissa’s arms. She’s grateful for the rug cushioning her slight fall, but there’s something <em> more</em>.</p><p>Narcissa has cast a cushioning charm. Wordlessly. She mutely notes this as she’s held so, so tightly to the older witch, and with the words leaving Narcissa’s mouth in a hushed whisper- <em> “Don’t you </em> dare <em> do this to me again, baby girl,” </em> as well as, <em> “You cannot run from this, you can’t outrun Mummy’s love, all right?” </em>- Hermione feels the sob suffocating her loosening from within her chest, breaking free of her like a heavy knot untangling itself. She shakes with the pressure of its release, fingers clinging to Narcissa’s back.</p><p>She’s so tired. She’s so, <em> so </em> tired of this perpetual chill. Whimpering, she then feels Narcissa shift her positioning slightly, then relief in the form of warmth floods her once Narcissa begins to rock her as best she physically can. It can’t be done like it could for an <em> actual </em> child, but it’s just as comforting, just as much like an old memory to her that her shivering ceases and she- she still grasps at Narcissa, who continues to whisper such sweet things to her that she doesn’t-</p><p>“How do I stop questioning… whether I <em> deserve </em> this, M-mum?” she asks and buries her face into the warmth emanating from Narcissa’s neck. She clenches her jaw, wanting to rid herself of the part of her that always makes her feel so undeserving, so consumed with overwhelming guilt to the point where lying had eventually become so second-nature to her. Lying to the <em> Weasleys</em>, of all people- they were the ones, the first pure-bloods, to accept her without conditions, never resorting to using that horrible slur. They have their shortcomings, of course, but they never- besides Molly that <em>one</em> time in fourth year- showed her anything akin to outright hostility or judgment.</p><p>Another sob rips itself from somewhere deep within her, and she hardly notices as a feather-light charm is cast upon her body, but she <em> does </em> notice with a squeak as Narcissa lifts her into her arms, cradling her so gently. She wraps her arms around Narcissa’s neck and burrows as close as she can, listening with rapt attention as Narcissa softly says, “I don’t know, darling girl, but we’ll figure it out together. Together,” she reiterates, then, “<em>Please</em>.” Hermione can only faintly nod into the crook of Narcissa’s neck before the older witch walks her to her flat’s bedroom, gently depositing her onto her bed.</p><p>It’s now that she notices she’s distinctly missing something important, even as Medusa circles a bottom corner edge of her bed. She frowns, pulling her knees up to her chest, much like how she had done not too long ago at Black cottage, and simply utters, “My otter… Mummy, I-”</p><p>But Narcissa’s already got the childhood Muggle stuffie and is holding it out towards her. A ghost of a smile flashes across Hermione’s features and she reaches out, taking it from the blonde. She then looks back up at Narcissa, who has this torn look on her face, which she doesn’t… she doesn’t want to see that all. She wants her mummy to be happy. She needs to- she reaches out with her dominant hand and tugs at Narcissa’s robe sleeve, worrying at her lip.</p><p>“Mummy…?” she says, partially repressing a whimper, but not the need in her tone. Narcissa settles down at the edge of the mattress and holds Hermione’s hand in hers, stroking the skin of the palm softly. Then Hermione watches as Narcissa pulls the hand towards her mouth, turning it around before placing a chaste kiss to the back, eyes flitting to hers. As she releases, Narcissa seems to consider her words, absently stroking Hermione’s fingers with her own.</p><p>Finally, she inquires, “Can we both sleep through the night, or do I need to stay awake to make sure you don’t run again, darling girl? Because I will if I need to.” But Hermione shakes her head vehemently and scoots forward, sitting on her knees and wrapping her arms around Narcissa. Tightening her hold to the other woman’s body, she reassures, “I promise. <em> Promise </em> I’ll stay. It’s… it’s my flat. I can…” she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, trying to remember, slipping out of small space somewhat, “add an anti-disapparition ward?” She offers it with a questioning blink.</p><p>But with a soft shake of her head and a lingering kiss pressed to Hermione’s forehead, Narcissa says, “You offering that is more than enough to calm my worries, sweet girl. Let us rest, and we will begin again in the morning.” Hermione nods and allows Narcissa to guide her up and away from the bed before she undoes the cover and sheets, watching the older witch with such warmth and gratefulness. She’s so lucky, so fortunate, so <em> loved </em> she realises with an intensely warm shock to her system as Narcissa finally looks at her again, the pale moonlight drifting through her blinds, illuminating light blue eyes that regard her with sincere concern and care.</p><p>She climbs into bed with her otter stuffie, slipping a little, and sighs contentedly as Narcissa wraps her arms around her securely. With another whispered promise, and the small weight of Medusa curling up near her, Hermione drifts off to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Sunlight filters through her window a few hours later, and she begins to wake with a slight groan and small shift of her body. Hermione could almost swear that Narcissa was still asleep if not for the way the other woman’s arms ply more pressure, securing her so… oh, right- so she won’t run off again. Hermione wriggles a bit in the witch’s hold, a small giggle escaping her at the soft warning growl Narcissa makes under her breath, then the blonde’s eyes shoot open, pointedly staring at her as if challenging her to even <em> try </em> to run. Hermione burrows into Narcissa closer, whispering, “I <em> will </em>have to get up to use the loo at some point, Narcissa.” And at the usage of her first name, the woman loosens her grip and blinks.</p><p>“Is today perhaps a coffee morning, Hermione?”</p><p>Oh, <em> oh </em> yes. She’s… she is decidedly not small now. It’s still an odd sort of transition, back to the older witch who fought in a war, who works at the Department of Mysteries and uncoils complex wards, who can more than handle herself in most every single way in life. Most every single way being the key phrase. And perhaps that’s a first step, understanding that. She inclines her head and informs Narcissa that yes, yes it is a coffee morning, if she’ll have her. Narcissa merely chuckles and says <em> yes</em>, she will, and then they’re both getting up, Hermione visiting the loo first, followed by Narcissa, and then after some morning ritual castings, Hermione manages to pull something out of her closet that will <em> work </em>for Narcissa.</p><p>“Picky witch, aren’t you?” Hermione mutters, waiting outside of her bedroom for Narcissa to change. The door opens mere moments later, nearly causing her to stumble from her position as she leans against the outer door frame. Narcissa directs a mock glare at her and primly states, “It’s called <em> style</em>, darling.” And the door shuts again as- wait, had the woman still been in the midst of clothing herself? Hermione’s eyes go wide, but she, no- she couldn’t have. She would have noticed… maybe? She fights against a flush that’s threatening to overpower her neck and face. This line of thinking will not do. Will not do at all.</p><p>Once Narcissa emerges again, Hermione can’t help but slump a bit as she looks the woman up and down, confirming that yes, she is fully dressed. Good and fine. She smiles and they take breakfast at her small kitchen table while Crooks, middle-aged half-Kneazle as he is, takes his brekkie nearby. They discuss articles from the most recent edition of The Quibbler, and it turns out that Narcissa is quite a fan of the publication… or at least about eighty percent of it. They both agree that there’s still quite a few articles that are complete bollocks, but, “if some derive enjoyment from them, who are we to say anything about it?”</p><p>Narcissa knowingly eyes her and says, “Even if that suggested ‘<em>some</em>’ is only Ms. Lovegood herself?” to which Hermione levels a stare at the other woman and simply answers with a solid <em>yes</em>. She’s come over the years to hold a rather protective streak towards the younger woman and Ravenclaw. They’d bonded, for lack of a better word, during her delayed seventh year- also known as her eighth year- though she still has kept too much from her to consider the friendship balanced. She fiddles with her fork for a moment, picking a bite of scrambled eggs up and chewing on it as she simultaneously chews on her line of thinking that had led her to coming here when she <em>should </em>have stayed at Black cottage.</p><p>After swallowing the egg and taking a drink from her first coffee of the day, she feels Narcissa’s eyes on her. Hermione glances from Crooks to the blonde witch, cheeks slightly colouring at the intense look Narcissa is giving her. Furrowing her brow and steeling herself, she offers the woman an out. “You’re sensing something more from last night, aren’t you?” Narcissa’s eyes subtly widen and she nods. With a heavy sigh, Hermione casts a stasis charm on what little remains of her breakfast and drums the fingers of her right hand on the table, while her left starts to reach up to nervously run through her hair, but is instead intercepted by one of Narcissa’s hands.</p><p>“Tell me, Hermione. You made a promise to not run; I will extend the same.” A flood of warmth runs through her, tingling at her extremities, and it only continues- likely raising her body temperature to normal- as Narcissa adds, “I want you to be able to tell me anything, Hermione. In whatever space you’re in. Right now I may not be Mum or Mummy, but that doesn’t mean I shed all semblance of care for your well-being. I would like to believe that we’re friends regardless.”</p><p>“We- we are! I…” Hermione swallows, bowing her head for a moment as she takes strength from Narcissa’s fingers stroking repetitive lines across the hand she’s holding. When she looks up, her breath hitches for a moment at the open gaze the other woman is giving her. And not merely open, but <em> receptive</em>. She nibbles a little at her lower lip and starts with a question. “Have I… have I ever seemed <em> cold </em>to you, Narcissa? To the touch, I mean,” she quickly amends.</p><p>She’s met with creased brows and slightly narrowed eyes, but the soothing swipes of fingers across her skin don’t pause in their ministrations, merely become slower, more deliberate. Breathing comes easier because of it. Narcissa’s eyes open wider by the second, seemingly putting two and two together through recollection of memories, until she breathes out, “...Yes, yes you have. I... hadn’t thought too much of it. That you might simply be iron-deficient, perhaps anemic, and my upbringing taught me better than... but-”</p><p>“You didn’t want to upset me?” Hermione supplies, a weak smile crossing her face. Narcissa inclines her head and takes full hold of the hand she’s been touching to soothe. With a meaningful grip and a look that reminds her that <em> Narcissa won’t run from me</em>, Hermione fights against every instinct in her to softly admit, her eyes squeezed shut, “There’s more to what I did to my parents. To the method I used.” She removes her hand from Narcissa’s and shoves her face into her hands, working to get a handle on her breathing before it gets any worse. A shiver overcomes her and she trembles slightly.</p><p>“I hate talking about it,” she whispers, and she faintly hears the scrape of a chair and Narcissa’s footsteps, but when hands rest upon her shoulders and start to massage, she shudders and pulls her face away from her hands, allows herself to relax, appreciate what the woman is doing to try and calm her. She rests her hands on her lap and finds it easier, somehow, to start to confess with Narcissa behind her, unable to directly look at her. “I used… this charm? That was certain to protect my- my parent’s minds, no matter the outcome. One hundred percent surety on their end. I… desperately wanted to protect them, but that-” she feels a lump form in her throat and she tries to swallow it down, curling her fingers into fists, nails digging into her palms, but- “It meant- t-that I- I- lost,” she gasps out, tears springing to her eyes, “I <em> lost </em> the capa-capability t-to regulate my b-body tem-temperature! I’m so c-c-cold, almost <em> all </em>the t-time!”</p><p>Unable to hold back the tears any longer, she gives in and cries, covering her face in her hands again until she’s pulled out of her seat by Narcissa, who supports her weight, letting her lean against her body. It’s not enough, though, and as she collapses to the ground, the blonde does as well, pulling her into her lap, stroking her hair as she releases a wave of pent up emotion. She’s not sure how long they stay like this, but eventually she’s sniffling, sure that she’s gotten Narcissa’s- well, <em> her own </em> clothing- wet from the tears, but like the woman had promised, she hasn’t run. She’s stayed right here with her, and a burst of warmth rushes through her at the knowledge.</p><p>“Hermione…” Narcissa says softly, her voice a soothing lilt to it, “Thank you for confiding in me. It took a lot of bravery, even for a Gryffindor, to admit that to me. I… I presume you’ve told very few people about this?”</p><p>She pulls away from Narcissa a bit and nods, the almost familiar sensation of slipping into small space beginning to wash over her mind. Not sure if Narcissa would appreciate having this conversation with her in small space, she fights it and says, “Y-yes, only the ones… I h-had to. When I came back from Australia. Harry, Ron… Mr. and Mrs. Weasley know. A few other Weasleys, maybe? Possibly L-luna? Or maybe I just wish...” Oh Merlin it’s so hard to repress what’s almost begging to come out now. She can’t hold back the whimper, and for some reason, she’s tempted to do <em>something </em>to try and self-soothe. She hears Medusa padding over, but she can’t stop glancing at her balled up fists, namely her thumbs. Maybe she can play it off as biting at her nails.</p><p>She brings her left hand up towards her mouth, and starts to chew at the tip of her thumb, but stops as a hand rests on her shoulder. Narcissa’s other hand comes to cup her jaw, and Hermione glances up at the older woman. She doesn’t even feel Legilimency used on her, just a tender smile and words that provide the comfort for her to suck on her thumb like a toddler. “Do what you need to, my sweet baby girl,” she says, ever so gently, and Hermione tentatively places her thumb into her mouth and it’s a strange sort of relief. Even though she can hear memories of other children making fun of her for her buck teeth in Muggle primary school, hushed whispers of adults saying, <em> “Her parents should have known better, they’re </em> dentists,” the low voice of her mother prevails, reassuring her that the correlation <em> “is a bit of poppycock, Hermione. Your father and I also had buck teeth, and </em> I <em> never sucked my thumb or took to a dummy! You certainly quit before you were a year and a half, well before most other children!” </em></p><p>Narcissa wipes at the wetness on Hermione’s cheeks, then swipes the back of her index fingers right underneath her eyes. And they sit there together for a few more minutes, Hermione finding a soothing rhythm to sucking her thumb until a movement from Narcissa has her pulling it out of her mouth, wiping it on her pyjama bottoms, a blush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. She begins to open her mouth to apologise, but Narcissa merely shakes her head and covers her mouth with the palm of her hand for a moment, a shine to her eyes as she says, “It helped, didn’t it?”</p><p>“Mhmm,” is all she can bring herself to reply as the hand is removed from over her mouth before the older woman stands up. She takes Narcissa’s helping hand and is lifted to an upright position again, pulled into a hug by the other witch. She feels so vulnerable, so small- Narcissa could shatter her to pieces if she wanted, but she… she doesn’t. She never has taken advantage of her. Hermione shakes with tears, but they’re happy ones this time, and she pulls away, smiling as she continues to cry, wiping at her eyes. Narcissa takes hold of her chin and swipes her thumb over the skin gently.</p><p>“You’re- you’re so <em> kind</em>, Mummy,” she whispers, watery laughter escaping her. “How are you-” But Narcissa shushes her and takes hold of the sides of her face with both of her hands.</p><p>“You’re my baby girl, Hermione,” the older witch murmurs, “it’s <em> natural </em> for me to be kind to you. All mummies should be kind to their children. I only... I want the best for you, and I-” she watches as Narcissa’s eyes shimmer, “I want to help right the effects of this memory charm. Will you let Mummy help?”</p><p>The phrasing of that last sentence as a question… <em> will you </em> instead of simply stating, <em> let Mummy help</em>, it… oh she appreciates it so much. A way out if she so desires. Letting her have some control, some autonomy, placing the decision in her hands. A few more tears fall down and over her cheeks and she nods, almost hating the loss of contact as Narcissa withdraws her hands.</p><p>“I know Healers at St. Mungo’s who… they may be able to help, and if not, we can go overseas, my lovely girl.” Hermione stiffens at the mention of Healers, remembers lying to the Weasleys about seeking them out herself years ago. What if they’ve had the answer, the cure to this, all this time, and she’s kept herself from it? For what? Because she… she’s thought she deserves it, for what she did to her parents. Again, back to hurting herself because of what she’d done to them. She feels herself start crying again, but she’s also fully grown in her mind now and she wrenches away from Narcissa’s arms holding onto her own and begins to clean up their mostly finished breakfasts, only a few bites left on each plate.</p><p>There’s no crack of apparation, and she almost wants to scream at Narcissa to <em> leave</em>, but she doesn’t. A small part of her is peeking out, desiring, hoping, <em> wanting</em>. It’s a part of herself that Narcissa is drawing out from years of hiding, years of neglect. The other part of her wishes that it wasn’t the weekend and she had an excuse to leave the other witch. She <em> could </em>lie and say that due to the time missed yesterday that she has to go in today, but… one look at Narcissa and the resolve in her crumbles entirely.</p><p>They go to St. Mungo’s.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>“This is so hard, I just- I should leave, Narcissa, I- I’ve just got to deal with this for the rest of my life- it’s, it’s penance, you see? I deserve it, for what-” but arms encircle her from behind and all the air is knocked out of her lungs in one breath. She covers her face with her hands as they wait for a Healer to see them in this examination room, which is <em> far </em> too comforting for her liking. So unlike the Muggle hospitals she’d been in as a little girl, and she somehow feels she’d never gotten the care she’d needed… no, she <em> knows</em>, she hadn’t gotten what she needed at her Muggle doctor’s office.</p><p>“I’ll repeat it as much as you need me to, Hermione, until it sticks in that beautiful head of yours,” Narcissa says right next to her ear, “but you are <em> always </em> far too close to this, what happened, to place any sort of penance on yourself for it. And no, I will never report you to the DMLE for this nor will I let <em>you</em>- yes, I did glimpse that route of penance in your mind- because you have <em> already </em>punished yourself far more than enough. You… Merlin, please just let me love you, my darling girl. Let me take care of you. Please?”</p><p>At Narcissa’s words towards the end, she slips and nods. She lets herself lean back into Narcissa’s hold, the woman’s steady, even breathing calming her. At the click of a magical lock, she expects Narcissa to let go of her, but she only grips a little tighter as the Healer walks in, surveying their positioning before she sits down on a stool, swiveling to lay down several parchments, presumably all that she’d had to fill out before they saw her. The woman greets her, then Narcissa, and it’s then that Hermione realises she’s been placed with a Healer from the United States, likely from a Southern state if her accent is anything to go by. She recaps what Hermione already knows, then… she is given some semblance of hope for a way to help this condition she’s landed herself in.</p><p>It might not <em>entirely</em> heal her as it's been years, and the potion will take time to develop, but she… “Thank you, Healer Morrison,” she finds herself saying on autopilot, but as she makes to stand, she’s pulled back by Narcissa. Turning her head, she sees the worry in the other woman’s eyes. Oh. <em> Oh</em>. The Healer hasn’t finished entirely, has she? She turns to apologise, but is waved off, hears that, “it happens sometimes, s’alright. Especially with No-Maj-borns like yourself, Miss Granger.”</p><p>She bristles at it, perceiving it as an insult to her heritage, but a soft hand to her arm soothes while the Healer hands her… pamphlets? For some place called <em> St. Dymphna’s</em>? Why hasn’t she heard of this- this… “Is this another hospital?” It’s all she can force out of her increasingly dry mouth. She hardly registers Narcissa’s weight, her hands still on her. The Healer visibly swallows and starts shaking her head, then seemingly corrects herself and tells her that, yes, in a way it <em> is</em>, but at the same time it’s more of a <em> centre </em> for <em> magical persons’ mental health</em>. </p><p>“For… for trauma, you mean,” she utters, the shape of the phrase falling out of her mouth like something, no, like <em> someone </em> else has taken over her body. They have a place for… for therapy? For mages like herself? She balls her hands into fists and suppresses the overwhelming urge to scream. The Healer confirms this and more. Hermione has to focus on reading the pamphlets, <em> really </em>reading them instead of mindlessly skimming the first few lines without comprehending. If she doesn’t she’ll actually scream. She thinks she still might once she’s back at her flat.</p><p>But she doesn’t. She drops the pamphlets on her kitchen table when they return and, again as if on autopilot, ambles over to her sofa and sits down, staring blankly towards the bookcase a few meters across from her. Thought she’d known everything there was, at least everything <em> important</em>, everything rather <em> huge </em> about Wizarding society in Britain. And yet this piece of knowledge has escaped her for over a decade. Through Hogwarts, through all these years of knowing the Weasleys, who should know <em> everything</em>, being pure-bloods… even if they had been branded as blood-traitors for so long.</p><p>Silently, she turns to regard Narcissa as the woman’s footfalls make a creak announce itself from her flooring. She stares unblinking, her thoughts a jumbled mess, but something crawls out, <em> wanting </em>again. After a few more moments of staring, Hermione blinks and brings her hands up to feel her face, to make sure she’s <em> really </em>here. She finds moisture, tears that she hasn’t realised she’s shed since returning. They’ve just… they’ve simply come without her permission.</p><p>“I feared this might happen, after you nearly rose to leave before-”</p><p>“How long has this place, this St. Dymphna’s <em> existed</em>, Narcissa?” she spits out, folding her arms across her chest, trying to protect.</p><p>Narcissa tentatively comes closer, and Hermione shrinks in on herself even more. “Not as long as St. Mungo’s. I believe it was in the eighteenth century. No, Muggles did not invent psychotherapy, only their own terminology for it. We- we call it-”</p><p>“Mind mending, yes, I saw. I… why was this never touched upon at Hogwarts? Why did the Weasleys never tell me? Why didn’t <em> anyone </em> tell me? Does <em> Harry </em> even know?” she asked, the pitch of her voice rising with each question. She’s struggling to not hyperventilate. Narcissa manages to sneak around her and sit down right next to her, tugging her into her arms. Hermione tries to thrash about, tries to free herself and <em> run</em>, but she- oh gods, she’s <em> promised </em> not to run, hasn’t she? Perhaps she can attempt to finagle her way out of it, clarify she’d only meant during the night, but- but she owes Narcissa more than that, much more.</p><p>She slumps into the woman’s form, greedily taking all the warmth she can from this interaction despite her best efforts not to. “I’m sorry- I was considering running again.”</p><p>“I know, darling,” Narcissa whispers. “I’m so sorry on behalf of this society that we all failed you so horribly. For the same reasoning that Hogwarts doesn’t have a course to help integrate Muggle-borns into this new world you all have no practical knowledge of, there is this. There are too many mages who find St. Dymphna’s not a useful institution, because we have various potions to alter mood. But they… I am one of those witches who has seen how detrimental continuously taking them becomes. If the root of the matter is not addressed, potions are merely a band-aid. This is where the Mind Menders come into play.”</p><p>“So… they’re… they’re therapists? Wizarding society therapists?” Hermione asks, leaning back so she can look at Narcissa’s face. The older witch nods.</p><p>Ducking her head, Hermione chews on the inside of her lip and says more to herself than to Narcissa, “I could have been seeing someone all this time, then. Someone who I wouldn’t have to… lie to. Even Harry tried to get me to see a Muggle thera- oh god, that means- even <em> Harry Potter </em> doesn’t know about this! And he- he’s been through <em> so </em> much, even <em> before </em> Hogwarts- he of all people-”</p><p>She’s shaken slightly by hands on her shoulders and hears Narcissa’s words as an echo. “Hermione, sweetheart, <em> breathe</em>. We can owl Harry and tell him. You can <em> both </em> go to St. Dymphna’s for a free initial session. Do think of yourself, please? I will help you and Harry navigate this, but… also remember, <em> you </em>are my priority, my darling girl.”</p><p>Oh she… Narcissa knows she needs this. Senses it. She lets herself slip, falls into such a space so that she willingly hands over all of the reins to Narcissa for the rest of the day. Narcissa cooks them lunch and dinner, something Hermione is still somewhat surprised by, as she had figured the pure-blooded witch always utilised house-elves for such work, but… that’s something to discuss when she’s fully-grown in mind again. She doesn’t even balk- well, not <em> entirely</em>- when she comes out of her loo and finds Narcissa sitting on her bed, a dummy rolling between the palms of her hands.</p><p>At noticing her, Narcissa stills the dummy in one hand, her thumb and forefinger grasping the handle. Hermione’s jaw is slack, lips parted as she stares at the… at it. “Mummy?” she quietly asks, sitting down beside Narcissa.</p><p>“I apparated to a shop in Diagon, and I- I thought you might want this? If you don’t, I understand, but, I merely-” Hermione takes a hand and rests it over the one Narcissa is holding onto the dummy with, squeezing a little. She’s already sucked her thumb, so it shouldn’t be… that much more, to use a dummy, right? Can she be that small, truly? She takes a breath and rests her head on Narcissa’s shoulder.</p><p>“Wan’ it, Mummy,” she says softly, and she feels Narcissa release the tension from her body. She pats her hand with her free one and Hermione watches as the hand that holds the dummy comes up towards her face. It’s… it has been a superbly stressful day or more, so she… she opens up and lets Narcissa settle the plastic nipple into her mouth after the older witch casts a cleansing charm on it. And she sucks on it, and finds peace enough to sleep through the night with Narcissa at her side.</p><p>When she wakes, the dummy is gone from her mouth, sitting in a little box on her bedside. She finds Narcissa in the kitchen, and it’s a new day. She finds comfort in the other woman’s presence. She’ll get through all of this. She has Narcissa. Someone who stays and accepts her. All of her.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The next several weeks are like the rise and fall of ocean tides. Setbacks and progress, pushing forward and then taking two steps back. Narcissa sticks by her side throughout it all, and they increasingly spend more and more of their free time together. Even when she’s not in small space- when they’re spending time at the coffee shop in Lateral Arcade, when she’s introducing Narcissa to parts of the Muggle world she’d shared with her parents, and so much more- she finds herself inexplicably drawn to the blonde witch. So much so that in time, the woman’s son sends her a letter, inviting her to take tea with him. His wife is now nearing or already in her third trimester, so she… she understands this is something serious to him, to take even the slightest amount of time away from Astoria.</p><p>Narcissa knows of this, of course. She reassures Hermione that Draco holds no ill will towards her, but only wishes to clarify some things, though Hermione notices a glint to those blue eyes as she states this. The other witch also says she’s already spoken with him, but, “he wants to hear <em> your </em>side of things, sweetheart.” He knows nothing of her small space, she’s told, and she believes Narcissa to hold that in confidence. It’s not for anyone but them. With all of the knowledge Narcissa gives her, she decides to meet with Draco. It’s the least she can do for the witch who has given her so much.</p><p>After gently hugging Astoria, the swell of her stomach so very prominent now, she shakes Draco’s hand and follows him into their sitting room while his wife ventures to another room to lay down for a nap. With a snap of his fingers, a house-elf appears with a full tea set, placing things just so, even preparing their teas for them before leaving with a nearly silent pop. She waits for Draco to take a drink from his cup first, but the wizard merely rests his elbows on his thighs, placing his chin in one hand while the other wandlessly adds another half sugar to her tea. He smirks at her owlish blinking.</p><p>“Potter… <em> Harry</em>,” he corrects himself with a limp wave of his hand, “informed me how you take yours, and Mother amended it slightly. It appears that she knows you better than he does now.” The blond wizard lifts an eyebrow, almost an exact replica of how his mother does it. She blinks again and finds her mouth is suddenly dry, but she can’t bring herself to drink yet. He shrugs and takes a sip from his own cup, then continues, “Now, I wonder why <em> that </em> would be. And yes, I have already spoken with her, but I find myself… <em> curious </em>of your take on this relationship.”</p><p>Hermione sighs and looks down at the tea tray for a few moments, then meets Draco’s eyes. “Your mother provides quite the comforting presence,” she says softly before finally taking a sip of her tea. She watches over the brim of the mug as Draco raises a brow, then chuckles.</p><p>“Yes, I’m rather familiar with that,” he says, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand, index finger tapping against his cheekbone. “She was the light in the dark during... <em> his </em>invasion of the manor. I…” the wizard lets out a shaky breath, “I am not sure where I would be without her presence then.”</p><p>She sets her cup back onto its saucer. “Nor do I know where I would be now, if not for her. We’ve become friends since that afternoon at Fortescue’s. She’s an intriguing, insightful, and caring witch, and she has come to mean a lot to me.”</p><p>“‘Has come to… mean a lot,’” Draco repeats slowly, stirring his tea idly, eyeing it instead of her. When he does look back up at her, his gaze is somewhat more open. “Mother said the same exact thing. But she would not clarify if there is… more. <em> How </em>does she mean a lot to you? I… I wish for her to be in good hands, if-”</p><p>“Oh!” Hermione almost squeaks out, understanding where he’s trying to go with this. “Oh, I- we- we aren’t <em> involved</em>, if that’s what you’re insinuating! I- <em> Merlin</em>, I’ve come to realise that Wizarding society is much more open to same-gender couplings, but… no, we aren’t. We’re friends, Draco. I- she- she wouldn’t, I-”</p><p>“Agh, stop, will you? You’re only stumbling over your words, Granger,” he presses, holding both of his hands up, palms forward. “My sincere apologies if there’s truth in your stammering, but you must know that my mother hasn’t spent this much time with anyone, except for my… for Father.” The wizard’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. Though they have long since distanced themselves from Lucius, she’s more than aware that neither of them are able to distance themselves from him completely within their own hearts and minds. He had deserved the time in Azkaban, perhaps later might have even earned time in a rehabilitation programme, but… he never got the chance. She still can’t necessarily <em> fault </em>someone for becoming so overcome with rage and anguish and grief that they went so far as to murder the man, but. It’s all in the past now. Even though his memory stays.</p><p>She nods jerkily and plays with her fingers. Draco continues to say that Narcissa has acted differently since growing closer to her, as if she’s happier, that “there’s more lightness to her step, like she’s found a real reason to truly enjoy life.”</p><p>“But she has you and Astoria!” Hermione sharply asserts, not wanting Draco to discount his importance in his mother’s life. “You’re her <em> son</em>, Draco, and-”</p><p>He waves her off with a dismissive hand. “I know, and that does count for something, but it’s not the same… Hermione.” She nearly chokes on her own spit at his voice saying <em> her </em> name. “She… it’s clear she cares for you. And you’ve had a positive effect on her. <em> Whatever </em>this is between the two of you, I only ask that you treat her right- not as if she cannot take care of herself, but. She’s…” he trails off, but Hermione inclines her head, understanding. Narcissa is his mother. He loves her.</p><p><em> I love her, too, </em>she almost says, but catches herself.</p><p>When she returns to her flat, she finds a letter in Narcissa’s delicate script that asks to join her at Black cottage, if that suits. <em> Well, of course it does</em>, Hermione thinks with a quiet chuckle before disapparating. She sees Narcissa look over at her with a smile as she appears with a soft crack and beckons her over to the alcove where she’d first opened up to the blonde woman so many months ago. Hermione curls up on the cushioned wrap-around seat built into the wall, right against the window, and rests her head in Narcissa’s lap, enjoying the feel of fingers running through her curls. She’s in the space between sleep and wakefulness when Narcissa quietly asks her how the meeting with Draco went.</p><p>And Hermione freezes, remembering what Draco had insinuated earlier. Narcissa hums, asks her if something happened, and Hermione sits up, surveying Narcissa’s face, eyes drifting down her body and then back up. She’s not <em> blind</em>, she’s always- ever since first seeing her at the Quidditch World Cup many years ago- noticed that Narcissa is an attractive woman. There is no doubt about that. And after Hogwarts, after the <em> war</em>, Hermione finally reached a place in life where she could fully realise and accept that she’s found herself preferring other witches to wizards. But she- she’s parsing through memories with the blonde, when she hasn’t been in small space, and she distinctly remembers one of their coffee outings from not too long ago.</p><p>
  <em> She listens attentively as Narcissa describes her last several days, splitting her time between researching medicinal potions at St. Mungo’s and traveling between various Wizarding households across the country as the midwife of seven different witches, four of which are part of a couple and the remaining three single witches. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve set-up a coffee date for two of the three single witches,” Narcissa says with a knowing smirk, picking up her coffee mug with more emphasis than usual and taking a long sip. Hermione furrows her brow and asks how she knows the two are interested in other witches, to which Narcissa simply laughs and remarks that she can read plenty from visiting her clients’ homes and interacting so intimately with them. </em>
</p><p><em> “Also, I’ve become increasingly aware of their attraction towards me,” Narcissa finishes with a gleam to her eye. “But they, unfortunately, are not my type.” Hermione presses her lips into a thin line, a wave of… jealousy? washing over her, but she shakes it off, not quite understanding. She’s not… if anything, she rationalises it as her small side expressing a bit of insecurity. She hasn’t truly considered the fact that Narcissa is single, and it’s a wonder the witch isn’t with someone already. What would happen if she found another man? Or… or woman, as apparently Narcissa Black </em> is <em> interested in some witches? Would she leave Hermione? </em></p><p>
  <em> Tearing off a piece of her buttery croissant, she chews and tries not to think about any of that, or the way Narcissa is looking at her, almost as if she’s scrutinising her with that intense gaze. Suddenly self-conscious, she takes a napkin and wipes at her mouth, but nothing comes off. After swallowing her food, she changes the subject, casting a slight muffliato around their booth so she can speak plainly about the now declassified findings from her Noon’s Hole expedition with the Department of Mysteries. Even though it is declassified, and even though people can’t run off from this shop and spill anything to any newspaper due to the wards, she’s stuck in her Department’s precautionary ways. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Narcissa picks her mind of the ancient runes and arithmantic equations that were used to splinter the wards enough to delve deeper into the cavern, and Hermione is more than happy to have found someone she can speak to on an equal level- at least, someone outside of her department. It’s something she’s never expected to find, but here Narcissa is. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Here Narcissa Black is, sitting directly across from her in this coffee shop, and she’s… she’s happy. And for once in her life, she doesn’t question whether she deserves this happiness. She’s content to delight in the other woman’s company and is relieved to be rid of her concerns of whether she should get to enjoy this. She lets herself have it. </em>
</p><p>Hermione stares down at her lap, at her fiddling fingers, until Narcissa’s fingers come to lightly touch the underside of her chin, applying slight pressure. “Look at me, Hermione,” Narcissa gently instructs, and her voice is lower than she’s heard it before. All she can do is raise her head and open and close her mouth a few times before saying it. Before telling Draco’s own mother that he’s suspected something <em> more </em>to their relationship, and she can’t finish before Narcissa is wide-eyed, asking how he knew about- about-</p><p>“No, he doesn’t know about small space! He- oh Merlin, Narcissa, he-” she feels heat spread from her neck up to her cheeks and averts her eyes. “He thought we were <em> involved</em>. Romantically? More? Er, yes. I- we- oh, gosh, he sent me for a loop with that.” When it’s silent for more than a few moments, she turns back and finds a light blush on Narcissa’s face, her lips slightly parted. Hermione’s brain short-circuits, and she starts to say in a rush of breath that it’s not that she <em> doesn’t </em> find her attractive, that “anyone’d be a fool not to see how beautiful you are, but I simply- it’s not part of our arrangement, and I’m- Merlin, I’ve <em> seen </em>myself, and I- you-” and she’s shut up with a hand placed over her mouth, pressing with some measure of force.</p><p>“<em>Breathe</em>, darling,” Narcissa tells her, and Hermione nods, but her eyes are still blown wide, roving over Narcissa’s flushed face. “My son… I will need to speak with him again. I did not mean for him to make you <em> this </em>flustered over it. If you truly do not-”</p><p>Hermione grabs Narcissa’s wrist and tugs at it- nothing. She pokes her tongue out and swipes it across the older woman’s palm. Now <em> that </em> gets a reaction out of the other witch- she <em> squeaks</em>, and oh gosh, it’s so adorable, she’s not heard it before now! Narcissa pulls her hand away, staring at it for a moment before wiping it on her robes instead of simply casting a spell to clean. </p><p>“Are you… are you saying that you set this up?” she questions Narcissa. The woman flits her gaze away for a moment, then turns back to meet her eyes again.</p><p>“Yes,” Narcissa breathes out. “You... I find you beautiful in every way, Hermione. But if this causes you discomfort, then I promise you I will cast it all aside, and if you are still willing, we can continue as we are. If you can forget.” Well, even now when she’s thoroughly flustered, she isn't rambling and stammering on like Hermione does. Her blush is quite flattering as well. Hermione wets her lips and moves her eyes from Narcissa’s down to her lips. This… she feels decidedly not small now, not in any way. After moments of silence, save for their breathing, Hermione mutters, “Oh for Merlin’s sake, Cissa, I don’t <em> want </em> to forget,” before wrapping her arms around the older witch and laying a chaste kiss to the woman’s lips.</p><p>Yeah. Yeah, <em> this </em> is entirely different. Narcissa kisses her back, and their lips move against each other slowly, getting acquainted with this... this <em> difference</em>. She feels Narcissa’s arms come around her body and rest along the small of her back, fingernails digging into her robes. It’s been a couple of years since she’s properly been with anyone, let alone another witch, and her only real experience has been with Ron. But Narcissa’s lips are pleasantly soft and slightly plump- at least her bottom lip, which she takes within her teeth and softly nibbles at for a moment.</p><p>She feels all of her twenty-six years as Narcissa runs a possessive hand through her curls, not at all like she does when she’s in her small space, and pulls her closer, as close as they can get, and begs entrance into her mouth, which Hermione gladly grants. They wind up disapparating back to that beach side Black-owned property, and Narcissa… well, Hermione finds out that the witch is <em> giving </em> in so many other distinct facets, outside of the relationship they have already built.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, Hermione wakes to find Narcissa resting her head on one of her hands, elbow leaning against her pillow. She’s watching her with a fondness that envelops Hermione like a cosy, thick blanket during the middle of winter. It’s summer, though, the hottest on record- <a id="return1" name="return1"></a>the heatwave of 2006<sup>[<a href="#note1">1</a>]</sup>, they’re calling it- but the warm feeling she has, it rights the chill she still periodically has to contend with, even with this relationship she’s now somewhat redefining with Narcissa. She keeps the blanket around her nude form, smiling and rubbing at her eyes until she and Narcissa both slightly startle at the sound of a beak rapping against the bedroom window. They turn their attention towards the sound, and Narcissa gets up, not even bothering with covering herself as she opens the latch and takes the envelope, summoning treats wandlessly to give to the bird before it flies off.</p><p>“It’s for you, Hermione,” and she sits up a little, propping her pillow against the headboard to rest her back on. Her mouth goes dry as she watches Narcissa walk back to the bed, taking in the swell of her breasts, her impossibly soft curves, even the handful of magical scars that litter her body, scars that she kissed last night. She’s gorgeous. And not only in such a physical sense. In every single way imaginable. Hermione licks her lips and swallows, taking the envelope from Narcissa, noting the St. Mungo’s wax seal before she breaks it.</p><p>She has to take in the letter three times before she covers her eyes with her right hand, sniffling as near silent tears track down her face. Wordlessly, she shoves the letter in Narcissa’s direction and waits for her to finish. When a hand rests itself on her left forearm, gently squeezing it, she removes the hand haphazardly covering her eyes and looks into Narcissa’s reddened eyes. “They’ve found a way to help you, sweetheart,” Narcissa says and draws her into a hug.</p><p>After dressing and going through the rest of their morning rituals, they apparate close to St. Mungo’s entrance. There’s a tug on Hermione’s heart as they enter the hospital that continues until she gives voice to it while they wait in the examination room once more. “It’s still… it’s there, still, this nagging that tells me… I shouldn’t do this. That I don’t deserve to cure this, or help it at all. But…” she pauses, “it doesn’t loom as large now?” She turns to fully face Narcissa and smiles. “It’s because of you, you know?”</p><p>“Somewhat, yes.” Narcissa gets to her feet, comes over to her and takes her hands in her own, swiping a thumb over Hermione’s darker skin. “But <em> you </em> had to believe. I can help, but I cannot change you. Only <em> you </em> can do that, and you are, my absolute darling woman. I will always be here to aid you in any way, though, as long as I live.” And at the address of <em> woman </em> versus <em> girl</em>, Hermione flushes and leans a bit forward, pecking Narcissa on the lips. Narcissa responds for a moment before the door’s magical lock clicks open, then withdraws, yet still holds onto Hermione’s hands. It’s the same Healer, and she hardly gives their hand-holding a passing glance before sitting down.</p><p>The Healer takes out a large vial of purple-tinted potion from her robes and begins to explain the volume markings on it. She is to imbibe 240ml a day for a week, and each date take note of her coldest and warmest internal body temperatures. By the time she’s finished, she will either be completely cured, or, “it may leave something of a slight chill behind, but nothing unmanageable with a potential for further medical aid later on.” Though she doesn’t admit this to the Healer, she glances towards Narcissa, silently telling herself that at some point she needs to tell her about the warmth <em> she’s </em> unknowingly provided her. That will help even if the potion doesn't heal her completely. She does take the vial of purple potion from the Healer, though, and reassures Narcissa that she will take it.</p><p>After taking and writing down her initial temperature at Black cottage, she measures out the first dosage and downs it in a few gulps, sticking her tongue out afterward at the somewhat unpleasant taste. Narcissa giggles and she playfully knocks her knee against the other witch’s, muttering, “Like to see <em> you </em>try this and like it.” Narcissa responds with a pat to her thigh before she remarks that she is in sore need of a shower, leaving Hermione to do what she will in the meantime.</p><p>She winds up wrapping herself in a light blanket while Narcissa showers, leaving the cottage for own flat with a note that she’ll be back each following evening to take her potion until she’s done with it. She doesn’t mention the chill that washed over her a few minutes after taking the first dose. It isn’t unmanageable.</p><p>Well, she tells herself this on the first evening, and keeps telling herself it every subsequent night save for after downing the last dose. On this night, she starts a fire in Black cottage’s hearth while Narcissa takes her nightly shower, bundling up in front of it with… last she counted, is about three or four blankets. And yet she’s still shivering. She can’t find it in herself to move or say anything, but starts at Narcissa’s hand laid upon her shoulder. Glancing back and upwards, she meets anxiety-riddled eyes- oh, and it’s still in the middle of a heatwave, and Narcissa is already looking uncomfortable in what appears to only be a thin night robe that ends just above her knees. </p><p>“Is this potion not working correctly?” Narcissa asks, settling down beside Hermione, quite clearly ignoring her own developing plight. But Hermione notices and puts out the fire, because Narcissa’s only <em> just </em>taken a shower- she shouldn’t be sweating right after! She shakes her head and tells her, because what’s the point in lying? It won’t help this situation, and she’s been continuing to work on changing this problematic aspect of herself… that yes, she knows she developed to try and protect herself, but it’s only backfired on her over and over again. She says that overall, the potion is working, that this is just a side effect, and it <em>is </em>her last night taking it.</p><p>Narcissa makes to rekindle the fire, but Hermione shakes her head. “It won’t last forever,” she tries to reassure the blonde woman, but Narcissa only purses her lips and creases her eyebrows in thought. Her eyes alight after a few moments, and- oh, she… wants to run a hot bath for her? Hermione tries to come up with a reasonable argument against it, but she’s shivering again and <em> Merlin</em>, the chill <em> hurts </em>. She’s lifted up by hands underneath her elbows, and she obediently follows Narcissa to the loo, where as she watches the other witch start to run the water, adding what she says are restorative and calming salts that also add bubbles in the mix, she slips in almost one fluid sequence of moments. Her eyes nearly glaze over at the heat emanating from the tub- she can already feel a little bit of the cold leaving her body.</p><p>“I’ll just leave you here to-” Narcissa starts as she halts the bathwater once it’s nearly at the top of the freestanding tub. When she faces Hermione, though, her facial features soften considerably. Is she- is she this obvious? She blinks, but struggles to come back to her fully-grown state of mind. And oh- yes, she’s only now registering her thumb’s back in her mouth. She can’t find it in herself to care, though, because she doesn’t do it <em> that </em> often. It’s… a sure signal to Narcissa, though, and the woman reroutes her original sentence, asking if she’d like to bathe herself, or have any help. Hermione comes closer, tilting her head upward a little, blinking at Narcissa. Is she- is she small enough for this? Some part of the back of her brain is flushing at the thought of it, but this isn’t- this is not <em> Cissa</em>, this is <em> Mummy</em>. It’s entirely different.</p><p>She nods once and allows Narcissa to take over. The woman brings a hand to her cheek, cupping it. “My sweet, darling girl, you’re <em> freezing</em>,” she hears, and she shivers again, and this was <em> after </em> a bit of it had fled her being? She squeezes her eyes shut as Narcissa draws her to her body for a few moments, and she <em> feels </em> as Narcissa redirects some of her own body heat into Hermione. She trembles for a different reason and idly looks to the far wall while Narcissa undresses her piece by piece until she stands only in her bra and knickers. They’re a plain white tonight, nothing special to them. Narcissa asks for consent once again, and Hermione’s so deeply nestled in small space that she can only nod twice.</p><p>Once she’s helped into the tub, she’s completely covered by bubbles that smell of soothing lavender. Sinking slightly, she watches through half-lidded eyes as Narcissa bathes her. She can only relax into the soothing water that increases from its initial lukewarm temperature every minute, and it doesn’t burn at all despite growing warmer and warmer, gradually melting away how frozen she had become due to the potion's side effect. After one of her arms is rinsed off, she rests it on the rim of the tub, leaning her head against it, simply watching Narcissa as she washes the rest of her body, shifting every so often when told so Narcissa can gain easier access. She’s so fortunate to have come across her, to... </p><p>“Love you, Mummy,” she says softly, and Narcissa turns to face her. A slightly damp hand is brought up to her forehead, thumb stroking her skin before fingers run through her hair. Narcissa’s gentle smile is aimed only at her, and she- she realises just how loved she is. Narcissa doesn’t even have to say it back, but she does, murmurs, “And Mummy loves you, too, baby girl. So, <em> so </em>much,” before she moves forward on her knees and presses a tender kiss to Hermione’s cheek.</p><p>The hot bath, including a massaging shampoo and rinse to her hair, does wonders for that unfortunate side-effect of the potion the Healer gave her. But as she lays in bed, spooned protectively, securely, by Narcissa, she slightly returns to a more grown mindspace and thanks her for the warmth <em> she </em> herself has provided her. “It started… at some point after we started seeing each other?” she surmises after the initial admission, and places her hands over Narcissa’s that rest atop her midsection.</p><p>“When you showed care towards me, when… when I felt loved and cared for by you, most of the time, I’d… feel a warmth course through me?” she works through it as she talks. “It was so odd at first, and I wrote it off as some… fluke, something I imagined. But the more it happened, the more I couldn’t deny it. But I- I didn’t want to tell you, because… I thought, maybe you’d think I only kept you around for it. But even if you had no effect on it, I… I don’t,” she turns around and wraps her arms around Narcissa, “I don’t want you to leave, unless- unless you- gods, I can’t ever <em> force </em> you to stay. But I- I really do love you, in any space I’m in, Narcissa. Every part of myself under the sun loves you.”</p><p>And now it’s her turn to wipe tears from Narcissa’s cheeks, moving her fingers up to catch them as they fall from her eyes. She’s not in small space, she’s that grown witch, that nearly twenty-seven-year old woman as she takes care of the witch who’s cared for her so much when she’s never… never <em> had </em>to. But she’s chosen to. They’ve both chosen this. Hermione strokes Narcissa’s cheek with the knuckles of her hand and rests their foreheads together as she provides words of comfort. A little more time passes before Narcissa breathes in deeply and locks eyes with her, and such warmth radiates from them that Hermione’s heart lurches in her chest.</p><p>In no time, soft lips caress her own, and she melts into the way they simply fit together. She smiles into the kiss, cuddling closer to Narcissa as she’s held, but they don’t go any further. They’re both too tired, and a comfortable warmth soon sends her off to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Another two weeks pass before she heads back to St. Mungo’s with Narcissa. During them, she formulates how to talk to Harry about St. Dymphna’s, which she put off until they found a working solution for her perpetual chill. Now that she’s gotten… for the most part, her body temperature back to normal, she’s gone through countless drafts of letters- until after a fit of frustration at herself and two days trying to forget about laying this bomb on her friend, she realises that not beating around the bush is best. Harry doesn’t need her overthinking things. He needs her to be honest, straight and true, and get to the point. The only thing she tries to do is soften whatever blow there might be to his wife never telling him about the place.</p><p>Once she goes to the appointment at St. Mungo’s after supper, whereupon they inform her after some testing that she’s ninety-seven percent healed, she and Narcissa go to the community owlery in Diagon Alley and send her letter off to Harry. Narcissa treats her to ice cream at Fortescue’s once they’re done at the owlery, and for the first time in <em> years </em> she’s able to truly enjoy the cold treat. Sure, she gets brain-freeze because it’s <em> so damn good</em>, she’s missed this <em> so much</em>, and her Gryffindor recklessness sometimes goes a tad haywire in such situations, but she doesn’t mind it at all.</p><p>Narcissa laughs good-naturedly and casts to ease the slight pain from it, and Hermione sends a mock glare her way before continuing to eat from her cone, albeit more slowly this time round. They’re inside the shop, considering the heat wave is barely gone, it’s still pretty much blazing outdoors, and now she can feel it almost as everyone else does. She’s not even wearing anything more than a tank top and light trousers underneath lightweight robes. Narcissa has even applied the same heat repellent charm on her that she’s been casting on herself for several weeks now.</p><p>When they finish with their cold treats, Narcissa purchases some ice cream from behind the counter, two separate liters of it, to store at Black cottage. The cottage doesn’t have a refrigerator and freezer, per se, definitely not a Muggle one, but there’s two containers, one sitting atop the other, that act like one- one's a bit larger, cast to keep items cool, while the other keeps frozen items, well, <em> frozen</em>. She waits on the bed, tugging off her knee-high boots while Narcissa puts the ice cream and a few other things away. Only when a weight settles down next to her, an arm wrapping around her shoulders, does she look up in the midst of pulling her socks off.</p><p>“What’s my darling feeling like tonight?” Narcissa inquires, tapping the tip of Hermione’s nose affectionately. Hermione purses her lips, wondering herself what she’d actually like to do, but a small shiver passing through her- remnants of the spell failure that will always be with her- answers for her. Narcissa pulls her close at the shiver and softly asks next to the shell of her ear, “Up for being my little girl this evening?”</p><p>She turns to Narcissa, nuzzling against her cheek, and says, “Mhmm, I- I want that. Can you, um,” she hesitates, glancing down at her last half-removed sock, “finish taking my sock off, and read to me, Mummy?” She slips almost effortlessly now, almost like it’s second-nature when in private with Narcissa, when the time is right and she’s <em> up for it</em>, as Narcissa might say. But it’s only as the older witch slides off the bed and pulls her sock the rest of the way off that she regresses entirely. She waits for Narcissa to come back, a few children’s books in her hands that she lets Hermione choose from.</p><p>She’s already had it read to her twice before, but she <em> is </em> quite fond of <em> Herbert the Hippogriff’s First Flight</em>, and it’s clear that Narcissa is aware of it as well, because she’s brought it with her. The baby Hippogriff in it reminds her of Buckbeak, and this one is the offspring from part of a witch’s small herd. The mother of the newborn Hippogriff nudges it towards the witch after the witch bows low, teaching him the foundations of accepting trustworthy humans. By the end, Herbert takes his first flight by his mother’s side as the witch rides her, all three Disillusioned so Muggles don’t see- a child’s lesson in the Statute of Secrecy.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes start to glaze over about a third of the way through this time, though, because she knows this story so well now, and Narcissa’s gentle voice is like a soothing balm to her. All of her worries about visiting St. Dymphna’s for the first time fade into the background just as the large-printed words in the children’s book do the same. Even the moving images eventually blur into only patches of pastel colours. Merlin, she’s more tired than she thought, but Narcissa’s voice certainly isn’t helping matters. Not that she minds it at all, nope. She burrows in closer to the older woman and wraps her arms around her waist while Narcissa finishes the tale.</p><p>“Sleepy, are we?” Narcissa asks, turning and dipping her head slightly to press a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head. Hermione hums and snuggles just a <em> little </em>bit closer, hearing soft laughter from the other witch. At the noise, Hermione huffs and moves on top of Narcissa, resting right there. Yes, this is what she wants.</p><p>Narcissa manages to disentangle them if only for a few minutes, promising Hermione they can sleep cuddled up together, but they both need to get properly ready for bed first. She brushes her teeth in the Muggle way, something that used to only remind her of her parents and hurt her, causing shivers every single time, no exceptions, but tonight it doesn’t cause her to become chilled. After Narcissa comes out of the bathroom dressed for bed post-shower, Hermione eagerly tells her about this development as they fall in bed together, Narcissa holding her close and stroking fingers through her hair.</p><p>“Aren’t you glad you sought help, my sweet girl?” Narcissa asks before kissing her forehead. Hermione looks into Narcissa’s eyes and bares herself to her, inviting her to see it all with that inborn skill at Legilimency. A soft nudge at her mind and a comforting presence enters slowly. She giggles at the feelings it brings up within her. When Narcissa exits, she murmurs, “You were such a brave and good girl to go through with it. Can you be brave again with your friend Harry soon for me? Hm?”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widen subtly, but she nods. Even if she’s afraid, she’ll be brave. For Narcissa. For Harry. For herself. For… for the parents, who, if they still knew her, would want her to take care of herself. She realises this now more than ever, thanks to this woman she’s pressed up against before she eases into a dreamless slumber.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>She, Harry, and Narcissa sit in the Weasleys’ den around a week later. The familiar warm and cosy atmosphere is chilled, and for Hermione, it’s reminding her of the time before. Before meeting Narcissa, before- <em> oh </em>, a hand suddenly rests on hers, maneuvering until her hand is held in the blonde’s sitting next to her, their thighs touching on the small sofa. Ginny’s in a screaming match with her mum, but Mrs. Weasley isn’t budging on her stance towards St. Dymphna’s. Ginny told Harry she’d only not told him about the centre because he’d mentioned a Muggle thing called therapy and had gone to it, off-and-on, over these last several years.</p><p><em> “Everyone’s gotten on well enough without those sorry excuses for Healers!”  </em>Hermione hears Mrs. Weasley exclaim, and she freezes in her seat, her body shifting nearer to Narcissa, angling towards her. Harry gives them a bit of a questioning look, but she doesn’t care. She’d told him, in as few details as possible, how much Narcissa has helped her with what happened to her because of what she’d done to her parents. And she’d apologised to him in the letter and again in-person a little earlier that she’d lied to him about going to St. Mungo’s years ago about her perpetual chill. She knows from the other looks they’ve shared today that discussing it isn’t over, merely on hold.</p><p>Suddenly Molly Weasley is storming into the den, straight towards Narcissa. She’s holding a shaking finger out, pointing straight at the blonde witch. On instinct, Hermione moves in front of Narcissa, gaze steely. Mrs. Weasley blanches, but recovers enough to jab a finger into Hermione’s chest, causing her to flinch front the harsh contact to her breastbone. Some of the Weasley matriarch’s magic, full of rage and self-righteousness, certainty that her way of thinking is <em> right </em>and sod everyone else, flows through her and enters Hermione. She winces and makes a small noise of pain at it, but doesn’t move away from shielding Narcissa.</p><p>“Why do you- why do you <em> hate </em>the centre so much?” she asks point-blank, her voice cracking with emotion. Harry’s on his feet now, too, glancing between his wife, who’s standing in the doorway with a splotchy red face, and Mrs. Weasley’s combative, yet now slightly faltering, stance. Hermione feels herself trembling, but hands come and grasp her fingers from behind, feeding warmth and a sense of calm through her. Tears spring to her eyes, a mixture of emotions overloading her. Molly, for her part, heaves a breath finally and whispers something she can’t make out. Hermione asks again.</p><p>Molly drops her hand and says, her voice pained, “They- they didn’t do a <em> thing </em>for me when Fabian and Gideon- when they-!” Oh. Oh gods. Oh Merlin.</p><p>Oh, <em> fuck</em>.</p><p>Ginny rushes to her mother, holding her up before she can collapse, draws her over to sit in a comfortable-looking chair instead. She’d not given a thought to Mrs. Weasley’s twin brothers. The ones she’d lost to Death Eaters during the First Wizarding War. She twists her fingers as she struggles to watch the scene unfold in front of her, but she’s transfixed when Narcissa stands up behind her, gently brushing her side as she slowly approaches Mrs. Weasley. Seconds tick by ever so slowly as she watches the blonde witch kneel before the red-headed Weasley matriarch and rest a tentative hand on the woman’s knee.</p><p>Time seems to lurch forward swiftly then, and before she knows it, Mrs. Weasley has told Narcissa the names of the people she’d dealt with at St. Dymphna’s, and Narcissa promises her that she will see to it that their licenses are brought under question, likely leading to their complete dismissal if they are still practicing. “If they were not able to help you, they were by law required to refer you to a better fit. So long as they still work there or within Great Britain, we will do whatever is necessary to see they are disciplined to the greatest extent possible for this.”</p><p>Hermione pinches herself as she sees Narcissa and Molly <em> hug </em> for what is definitely the first time they ever have, if Ginny’s shocked face is anything to go by. No, scratch that, because Arthur Weasley walks in from the Floo a moment later and his eyes nearly look like they might fall out of their sockets the way they bug out at the sight. Then, of all people, Harry Potter breaks the strange atmosphere that’s developed with his laughter. She turns to him and slings an arm around his shoulder.</p><p>“I can’t thank you enough for speaking on her behalf during the war trials,” she whispers to him, grinning from ear to ear. He nods, some of his unruly hair brushing against her nose and making her sneeze. Then <em> she </em>bursts into laughter, and everything devolves into some sort of tremulous, shaky merriment. While they enjoy the evening, in the background is still that upcoming first visit to St. Dymphna’s, and it appears most of the Weasley clan will be going about a week or so after she, Harry, and Narcissa go. Well, adding in Ginny too, adamant that she will accompany her husband.</p><p>She does just that, and Hermione is astounded at how one centre can simultaneously hold to it an atmosphere of professionalism and such unadulterated warmth. Yet St. Dymphna’s accomplishes such with flying colours, though the prevalent colour scheme of the centre and its Mind Menders are of various shades of calming blue tones. She and Harry split their one free consultation between a joint session and an individual one. They’re able, for the first time in their lives, to speak of everything that has happened to them without omitting one single detail. The vows that the Mind Menders must take place confidentiality at the top, of utmost importance.</p><p>After the free consultation, both she and Harry sign up for a period of eight sessions more to start with, once a week, and every other one they are welcomed to bring in a spouse, significant other, or someone else they trust. Harry kisses Ginny after happily informing her, and Hermione shares a knowing look with Narcissa before they disapparate to Black cottage. Though she presumes that either Harry or Ginny or <em> both </em> know that there’s <em> more </em>to her and Narcissa’s relationship… she wants to do things on her own terms. Cradling Narcissa’s cheeks in her hands, she leans her forehead against the older woman’s and breathes out, “Merlin, I love you so much, Cissa.”</p><p>They spend the night wrapped up in each other, and warmth never evades her.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>It takes a few weeks, but after speaking of her parents and what she’d done to them, and divulging the majority of her relationship with Narcissa while the other witch sits with her on these sessions, she’s back reliving her torture on the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor. Her fists are still slightly clenched as she exits the Mind Mender’s quarters. Despite the comfort charms and the way the office transfigures itself into whatever she needs to feel calm and safe, it still wasn’t enough this time. They'll be discussing it the next week with Narcissa there, too.</p><p>She clams up around Narcissa when the blonde witch comes to greet her after, rising from her seat and pulling her into a hug that she doesn’t return. She wants to, but- but she’s realised that Narcissa still jointly <em> owns </em>Malfoy Manor with Draco. It will only be fully passed down to him once Astoria gives birth and they officially make the newborn Malfoy heir apparent to the House. Which… honestly, should be any day now, considering the Malfoy wife is nearly two weeks past her due date. Narcissa asks her what’s wrong, because of course the older witch can read her like the back of her own hand now. Hermione stays mum, though, shaking her head enough that a few of her curls fall down over her face. She almost caves when Narcissa brushes the locks of hair away and behind her ear, but she somehow holds fast to her silence.</p><p>Small space comes easier than ever when they return to Black cottage- which has, in no certain terms, become the closest thing to <em> their </em> home- because it helps her to forget, at least temporarily. To put aside the trauma she’d revisited during the session with her Mind Mender, a man who knows when to push and when to show gentle care. It’s a gift, truly, Hermione believes- this mind mending. It’s not <em> healing</em>, not like fixing up a broken leg with a spell or two; it’s a much more fine art in practice, at least in Wizarding society. Though she still steadfastly believes in the good of mind mending, it doesn’t mean it comes easy- it requires so much vulnerability, it takes so much out of her each time, but she’s had to admit that it’s given her so much more.</p><p>Not to say that she doesn’t have setbacks- her Mind Mender and Narcissa’s had to remind her of her self-sabotaging thought patterns when they rear their head, and she knows she still has quite a way to go. What helps the most, though, is writing letters to her parents, apologising to them for what she did, acknowledging that she did the best she could think of at the time, that she was only <em> seventeen</em>, still essentially a child despite having reached the age of maturity in British Wizarding society. Her Mind Mender and Narcissa talk to her about memories of her parents, and she delves as deep as she can, more and more each session whereupon they speak of them, and she’s tasked with recalling key aspects of each of their personalities, only to construct how the conversation would go with them if it could happen.</p><p>It helps more than she can ever express, though she does her best tonight to dive back into that constructed scene, and it brings her comfort. Cuddling up with Narcissa helps, too, and she giggles as Narcissa peppers kisses to her face and head. She almost forgets about Malfoy Manor and Bellatrix Lestrange entirely. That is, until she has some of her nightmares about that evening for the first time in <em> years</em>. She’s pinned to the wall of the drawing room in the manor, then suddenly she’s pinned to the ground of the same room by Bellatrix, her deranged sneer frightening her, but it’s not as horrifying as experiencing the <em> Cruciatus </em> again and again and again, and this time, no one else is here. Not even Narcissa. She's alone with Bellatrix, and it goes on and on and she starts crying, to which Bellatrix makes a mockery of, using baby talk that’s in no way meant to comfort-</p><p>“Hermione!” she hears the familiar voice like some distant echo, and she’s shocked awake by hands on her that are decidedly not Bellatrix’s. They’re gentle yet firm, and she’s panting, sweating, looking this way and that like a wounded animal until her eyes focus in on pale blue ones. She removes her hand from her wet crotch- wait, <em> what </em> ? It has to be sweat, it has to- she throws the covers off and starts shaking her head, stifling a sob by cupping her dry hand over her mouth. Narcissa glances down at the darkened pyjama pants, then the wet spot beneath Hermione. She immediately pulls Hermione to her, and murmurs, “It’s okay, it’s <em> okay</em>, baby girl. You just had an accident during a nightmare. Mummy’s here now, she’ll make everything better, okay?”</p><p>She’s slipped without even realising it this time. With a needy whine, she burrows in closer to Narcissa, not even caring that she’s getting the blonde witch’s nightclothes a bit damp from the contact. A few moments later, though, she feels it as Narcissa silently casts cleansing spells on the both of them, and right after she’s lifted into the older woman’s arms like she's weightless and taken to the cottage’s loo, where she settles Hermione onto the shut toilet lid while she runs a bath for her. Once she’s done with filling the tub, Hermione is squeezing her thighs together, and a part of her in the back of her mind <em> knows </em>she needs to go again, but she- she can’t remember-</p><p>“Sweetheart, stand up for a moment,” Narcissa says softly. On shaky legs, Hermione does just that, only to watch as Narcissa pulls the toilet seat up, nodding towards it. “You need to go, Hermione. You- oh, my sweet baby,” she comes to her and pulls her pyjama pants down as another wet spot starts to form, helping her sit on the toilet as she goes. This time it all comes out, and she- she’s never been <em> this </em> small before, she realises just as she begins to feel a <em> little </em> bit older. She bites her lip as Narcissa pulls her pyjamas off her, then puts her thumb in her mouth as she’s helped into the tub. After a few minutes, she begins to zone out because it feels <em> so good</em>. Mummy’s taking such good care of her, she loves her Mummy so much. She wants- she wants to give the <em> world </em>to her Mummy.</p><p>And the next morning, when she wakes and she’s wholly her twenty-six-year old self again, she gets up before Narcissa and makes an <em> almost </em> full English breakfast in bed for the woman. She’s only missing the black pudding, tomatoes, and onions, but after kissing her on the cheek, Narcissa tells her that this is, “more than enough, Hermione love, <em> thank you</em>.” When Narcissa makes to share some of it with her, Hermione shakes her head, but the other woman won’t take <em> no </em> for an answer in this case. And so Hermione finds herself opening her mouth up to take bites of egg, sausage, and toast from Narcissa, as well as sharing some of the tea she’s made for the blonde.</p><p>“I’m sorry for-” she starts to apologise for the accident when they finish with breakfast and banish it to the kitchen sink, but Narcissa casts another one of those bloody lip zipping spells on her and she sighs instead, settling back against the headboard of the bed. She listens, though, as Narcissa assures her that she doesn’t need to apologise, she’d noticed how she acted after the previous day’s mind mending session, and, “it’s… become clear to me, that there is likely only one event that could cause such a nightmare for you, darling. And it’s I… who should apologise, for standing there, for doing… <em> nothing</em>,” the older witch’s breath hitches in her throat and Hermione, voice or no voice, can <em> still </em>pull the woman into her, wrap her arms around Narcissa’s soft body.</p><p>The spell dissipates after a few moments and Hermione gently says, “If you’d done anything, Draco would have been killed. You might have as well. It took my rational mind time to come to that conclusion, but. You- I trust that you wouldn’t have let me… let me-” but she can’t finish the sentence. Narcissa’s tear-streaked face pulls back to look at her, resolve in her eyes.</p><p>“As a Slytherin, I would have found a way to prevent your death as well as my son’s, my- my husband’s, and myself. I would never let her- that sister who was no longer <em> my </em> sister- murder a <em> child </em> . Murder <em> anyone </em>right in front of me, at that. I may have… contemplated a method, might have used tactics that you wouldn’t have in order to achieve it, but…” Narcissa tapers off, fresh tears springing to those beautiful blue eyes. Hermione reaches a hand up, wiping them away as they fall with her thumbs.</p><p>She rests their foreheads together, shutting her eyes, and hums something meant as a comfort, to soothe. When she moves her head again to rest her chin on Narcissa’s shoulder, hands cling to her back, fingers grasping at her pyjama top. They stay like this for a few minutes more until the workday calls to them both. She exchanges owls back and forth with the other woman throughout their breaks during the day, though, and they manage to meet for lunch at a small bistro in Diagon Alley.</p><p>It’s at the tail end of this lunch that a harried owl- <em> Draco’s </em> - lands atop their table, jutting it’s leg out for Narcissa to take the envelope. There’s no wax seal, something Draco <em> never </em> forgets according to Narcissa, so Hermione has a hunch that turns out to be the truth. Narcissa gasps as she skims the letter and grabs onto Hermione’s hand with her free one as she finishes reading. “Astoria’s having the baby!” she exclaims, happy tears coming to brim at her eyelids, and Hermione smiles widely, standing from her seat. She helps Narcissa up, neatly folding the letter with a flick of her wand and tucks it into the blonde’s robes. It’s her turn to take care of the witch she loves- <em> her </em>witch, she thinks, filled with adoration as she takes to them St. Mungo’s apparition point.</p><p>They’re quickly taken to the birthing ward, finding Draco pacing the waiting area. He glances up at their arrival, his pale face lighting up at the sight of his mother. Not even giving Hermione a spare glance for the moment- which she’s more than grateful for because Merlin, she hasn’t even <em> told </em> Draco that she and Narcissa are, for all matters considered, <em> together </em>now, in just the way she’d been about interrogated on by the blond wizard- he accepts the hug from Narcissa and Hermione finds a seat to rest in. She wants to give mother and son the chance to be together without her- she’s not family, after all. For a moment, Hermione considers getting up and leaving after she’s sent letters to her and Narcissa’s supervisors explaining the absence and taking the rest of the day off, but she’s stopped by an unfamiliar hand resting on her shoulder. With a look up, she finds Draco Malfoy smiling down at her. A small, exhausted smile, but a smile nonetheless.</p><p>“Grang- <em> Hermione</em>,” he corrects himself, releasing his loose grip from her shoulder. “You’re <em> welcome </em> here. Have you forgotten what my mother said to you? She set you up, <em> we </em> set you up- I already knew she had feelings for you, we were merely attempting to see in our Slytherin way if you felt the same. So of <em> course </em> I know the two of you are together now.” He makes an odd face at that for a moment, but swiftly schools his features. “However strange it continues to strike me, but if you make her happy…” he turns to look at his mother, who looks up from some old Witch Weekly, flashing a smile in their direction, “and it’s <em>disgustingly</em> clear that you do, then… I can only wish the best for the both of you.”</p><p>Clearing her throat, she fixes an easy smile, glancing from Narcissa to Draco, and says, “Thank you, Draco. I only wish to make her happy for as long as she’ll have me.” She means to say more, but the Healer’s aide comes out, informing that the baby’s head is finally about to breach, and Draco rushes off to be by his wife’s side. She ambles over to sit next to Narcissa, who is in no way actually reading from the magazine she’s been holding on the same page for a few minutes now, so Hermione plucks it from slender fingers. Narcissa sends a mock side-eye her way, but she laughs it off and covers Narcissa’s hands in her own, rubbing gentle motions over the pale skin, reassuring her that her daughter-in-law, son, and grandson are going to be <em> just </em>fine, everything will turn out right as rain with a healthy baby boy, and-</p><p>“Ms. Black!” the Healer’s aide comes rushing into the waiting area again, almost out of breath. Through smiling gasps, they inform her… girlfriend? Yes, girlfriend, that’s it, that she’s a <em> grandmother </em> of a beautiful baby wizard now. Narcissa looks so, <em> so </em> overjoyed, and she practically drags Hermione with her into Astoria’s hospital room, where the new mother is holding her new bundled up son to her chest while Draco sits in a seat right next to his wife, beaming like the proud new father he is. Hermione stands a bit off to the side while Narcissa goes over to the new family of three, bending over somewhat to get a good look at her grandson. She watches, leaning against a wall, as Narcissa coos at the bundle, reaching a hand out to gently stroke the baby’s head from the little bit that Hermione can make out.</p><p>“His name is Scorpius,” Hermione hears Astoria say, her voice disarmingly tender. Narcissa is given the child to hold and rock in her arms soon after this declaration of the boy’s given name, and Hermione watches on as Narcissa lifts her face for a moment to gently smile over at her. Then Narcissa comes to stand in front of her, turning slightly to show off the newborn wizard. He’s got his mum’s dark green eyes, but if the small, thin tufts of platinum blond locks are any indicator, Hermione says to Narcissa with a smile, “Looks like he’ll inherit the Malfoy hair.”</p><p>“It is a strong trait in that family,” Narcissa murmurs, then takes the baby boy back to his mother. She happily takes her son and unashamedly moves her hospital robe open to place the boy to her for skin-to-skin contact. Hermione is torn between fascination and the prudishness she was raised with, but at the lack of any judgment shown her way, she watches as little Scorpius instinctively seeks out one of his mum’s nipples for feeding. It’s… a magical sight. Wondrous, miraculous, watching the connection between mother and son solidify, and she notices- no, she viscerally <em> feels </em>the bonding of their magic, Astoria’s and her son’s. And it appears it’s something expected, known to happen, because Draco soon reaches out, placing the tips of his fingers on his son’s light head of hair. Even more magic reaches out, mingling between mother, father, and son. It’s… so overwhelming.</p><p>She doesn’t say a word, only silently exits the hospital room and heads to the women’s toilet down the hall. Inside, she heads straight for the sinks, exchanging a look with the only other witch in the facilities, grateful that she isn’t asked questions or even greeted beyond a simple visual acknowledgement. The mind mending’s helped considerably, but as the other woman leaves the restroom, Hermione takes her first real look at herself since leaving the hospital room. Her eyes are red and splotchy, but she hasn’t cried. Not yet. She sniffles and turns on the cold water, cupping both her hands under the stream until it fills up with liquid. Bending her face down towards the sink, she splashes the cold water onto herself, actually grateful for the chilled feeling that comes over her.</p><p>At the sound of the door opening behind her, Hermione looks up, dropping her hands to grip at the edge of the countertop. She gives a half-forced smile upon seeing that it’s Narcissa. The older witch comes up behind her after locking the loo’s door, envelops her within her arms, and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Hermione…” Narcissa says as she strokes fingers through dark curls, “I am truly sorry- I did not think that this would-” she sighs, “That’s the problem. I didn’t think.”</p><p>“Don’t apologise, please, it’s… it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”</p><p>She blinks at what she’s just heard come out of her own mouth. The comprehension of that it’s <em> not her fault</em>. That she’s admitted that to herself, and by proxy, Narcissa. She chokes on the rest of her words and turns around until she’s pressed against the front of the older woman, her arms clinging to the blonde as they hold each other. Narcissa murmurs words meant to soothe and calm her, and they do just that. She eventually loosens her grip on Narcissa and watches the woman pull away, a hand cupping her cheek, thumb stroking her skin.</p><p>Hermione’s lips curl into a watery smile and she chuckles. “We’d be a right sight if anyone came in here now, but <em> someone </em>had the excellent foresight to lock the door.” She pauses for a moment, considering something. “There is another bathroom on this floor, right?” Narcissa nods, exhaling a soft laugh as she reminds her that every room has a single loo in it.</p><p>“Are you feeling better now?” Narcissa asks her, hands now resting on Hermione’s shoulders, studying her face intensely with concern. Hermione purses her lips before biting the bottom one, wondering if… is she better? She feels lighter now, the weight taken off, but-</p><p>“You’ve made me feel better, Narcissa,” she admits, biting back an urge to call her <em> Mummy </em> in public. Even if they are in a locked bathroom with no one else around. “I’m… it simply made me think back to my own parents…” she turns her head slightly away for a second, sighing before she meets Narcissa’s eyes again. “I <em> felt </em> the magic mingling between them, in there, and- and it made me wonder if Muggle-borns reach out to their parents with their magic and find nothing, and it- it made me sad. I love… Merlin, I <em> love </em> my parents, I always will, but I couldn’t help but wonder-”</p><p>“Oh, <em> Hermione</em>,” Narcissa tenderly says, taking hold of Hermione’s face between both of her hands. “I cannot answer this for you, but do trust that even if you could not share your magic so intimately with your mother and father, that the bond you developed with them is <em> just </em> as important and significant. You loved them so much that you sacrificed part of yourself to <em> protect </em> them. That- that is love. Yes, there may have been other ways to do so, but you can <em> never </em>discount the bond you shared, and the love you will always have for them is not diminished by the mere fact that they are Muggles. They are still your parents, Hermione, and they loved you.”</p><p>Hermione’s barely holding back the tears now and she pulls Narcissa to her again, telling her <em> thank you </em> over and over again until a knock resounds on the door and they both realise that even though there <em> are </em>single bathrooms in each room, they really shouldn’t hog this one. Neither of them particularly wish to see whoever it is who wants in, though, so they head to the opposite end of the facilities, crowding into a stall together before Narcissa unlocks the door with her wand. The instant her magic hits the lock, she grabs hold of Hermione’s hand and they side-along back to…</p><p>“My flat?” Hermione voices once she’s properly oriented, her vision no longer slightly spinning from post-apparition dizziness. Narcissa only hums and calls out for Medusa, who in leaps and bounds crosses the length of the flat from Hermione’s bedroom to their feet before she climbs up to sit atop Hermione’s shoulder, nuzzling into the side of her head and purring.</p><p>Narcissa pets the Kneazle stuffie and then says to Hermione, “Yes, your flat. With this delightful creature. What would you like to do while I wrap things up with the rest of my family, my darling?” She leaves off any modifier, control handed over to her to decide if she wants to partake in activities suited for her physical age, or if she’d rather slip into small space and occupy herself under the watchful, protective eye of Medusa. Hermione ducks her head for a moment, lightly chewing on the tips of a few fingers.</p><p>“Think I’ll… I have some work for the Ministry I need to do,” she decides, gesturing to the desk nearby, filled with parchment she's taken home from the department. Medusa hops down from her shoulder and begins to pad back towards the bedroom, probably where Crookshanks is lazing about as well. “Perhaps I… I’ll do that, what I can, and we’ll see how we both feel when you return. And if you want to stay the night with your family, that’s f-” but she doesn’t get to finish, because tender lips kiss hers, slowly moving against her own. Hands rest on the small of her back, pulling her close, and she responds with one hand fisted in Narcissa’s loosened locks of blonde hair while the other places teasing fingers along the woman’s jawline.</p><p>When Narcissa breaks the kiss, she murmurs, “You’re part of my family, too, my love, don’t forget that. You’re so much to me, Hermione. And though I do love and cherish my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson- Merlin it feels so odd to say that!” Narcissa laughs, wiping happy tears from her eyes, “It’s important they aren’t crowded in these first few days. When they need me again after tonight, they can send an owl.”</p><p>“You are… something else, Narcissa Black,” Hermione says with a light laugh. “Go to them, bond with little Scorpius a bit. I’ll be here waiting for you later.” She leans forward, tilts her head slightly up and presses a quick kiss to her witch. Narcissa brings a hand up to the side of her brown curls and runs her fingers through once before she withdraws herself and, with a wink that leaves Hermione boneless, disapparates back to St. Mungo’s.</p><p>Hermione manages to get through the majority of the departmental parchment work that has accumulated at her desk, and after she casts disguisement and secrecy charms on the folders she needs to take back to the Ministry, she begins to cook dinner for the two of them. Crooks wanders in halfway through, nose turned upwards as he sniffs the fish she’s preparing. He doesn’t settle until she tears a few bits off, tossing them into his waiting mouth. She’s giggling as she sets the table with their fish and assorted vegetables plus bread rolls and drinks, because, oh Merlin, seeing her <em> actual </em>half-Kneazle and Medusa playing is something else.</p><p>“Oh my love,” a tender, familiar timbre rings out from the direction of her bedroom, “Your laughter needs to be bottled; I am certain it could cheer <em> anyone </em> up.” Hermione starts, a fork clattering to the table as she looks, only to find Narcissa walking towards her with her smile that can light up a room. And it’s directed at her, solely <em> for </em>her right now. She rushes around the table and throws herself into the blonde witch’s arms, laughing even harder, the joy within her uncontainable, like the warmth of the sun has finally come to her. Oh gods, she’s in it deep.</p><p>She wouldn’t have it any other way.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note1" name="note1"></a><sup>1</sup>This was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2006_European_heat_wave">an actual thing</a> that I found out about while writing this chapter. I had no idea about it when writing the first chapter but it fits in excellently with part of the fic askfjks.<sup>[<a href="#return1">return to text</a>]</sup></p><p>I'm not sure if I'll write more for this. If I ever do, it'll be a different part instead of an additional chapter to this. Feel free to leave ideas for anything you might like to see in potential future installments if you'd like. No promises on anything, but I do read each comment.</p><p>
<i>oh it finally looks like the warmth of the sun has come</i><br/>
<i>oh and you appeared, the weight of the world was done</i><br/>
<i>and i know that this is something i can lean on</i><br/>
<i>for all the times ahead</i><br/>
<i>oh it’s all i’ve been dreaming of.</i>
</p><p>- "hold" by noble oak</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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